Into the Hills
by JolieBlack
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes barges into their living room at 221B Baker Street covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, John Watson dismisses the incident. But as it turns out, the case of the dead pig is still waiting to be solved, and doing so may take a heavy toll on both of them... A canon-compliant extra episode. Casefic, Drama, Angst and H/C. Gen; no pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:**

When Sherlock Holmes barges into their living room at 221B Baker Street covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, John Watson dismisses the incident as just another demonstration of his flatmate's gift for dramatic entrances. But after their return from Dartmoor, he quickly learns that the case of the dead pig is still waiting to be solved. And not even Sherlock knows yet how just high a price they will both pay for trying.

An extra episode, set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall".

Casefic, Drama, Angst, Friendship and Hurt/Comfort.

Gen; no pairings.

 **Author's note:**

I've been told to label these longish casefics "extra episodes", and if they work like that, and help to tide you over the wait for season 4, that's all I'm asking. Enjoy! Your feedback is much appreciated.

This story starts on the afternoon of the day when Sherlock and John return from Dartmoor after "The Hounds of Baskerville".

Rated T for violence.

Warning: The story contains a reference to sexual violence against children resulting in death, but it is not the focus of the story. It also contains references to cruelty against animals.

I have already finished writing the story, except for some minor final editing. So there is no danger of it being abandoned. Expect an update every couple of days.

* * *

 _ **St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Molly Hooper's lab,**_ _on a grey afternoon in March. The lights are on, and Molly, in her lab coat, is sitting at a computer, transferring data from some handwritten notes on a clipboard into a form. There is a knock on the door. Molly swivels round in her chair. The door opens, and there stands John Watson in his black jacket. He is alone, and he seems rather ill-at-ease, as if unsure whether he should be there at all. Molly's eyes go from John to the glaringly empty space at his shoulder, and the smile threatens to slide from her face. But she catches it just in time and pushes it back into place._

MOLLY: John, hi! _(She gets up from her seat and takes a few steps towards him. Warmly)_ Good to see you. Are you back in town then? _(With an embarrassed little laugh)_ Oh, of course you are, what a silly question. Isn't Sherlock here with you?

 _John makes an effort to return her smile, but doesn't quite manage it._

JOHN: No, he's… busy. _(Rather indifferently)_ I suppose.

MOLLY _(taken aback at John's tone, with a frown):_ Is everything alright?

JOHN _(automatically):_ Yeah, of course.

 _Molly searches John's face, but then deliberately refrains from calling him on the obvious lie. He steps into the room and quietly closes the door behind him._

JOHN: How d'you know we've been out of town?

 _He takes care to make it sound like a casual question, but Molly blushes all the same._

MOLLY: Sorry. Was it a secret? I had it from Greg Lestrade.

JOHN: How's that? We've all only just got back.

MOLLY _(flustered):_ Oh no, no. I'm explaining this badly. He didn't _tell_ me. _(Speaking fast, in a rush to clarify things)_ But he came in here early yesterday morning with some stuff for me to sign. Then his phone rang. I didn't mean to listen in, of course, and he didn't actually say much, but I couldn't help overhearing. He ended with "Right, I'm on my way". Then he hung up, cursed, muttered _(Molly's voice drops an octave, to an uncanny imitation of Greg Lestrade rumbling with irritation)_ "Not your bloody nanny, am I?", and then marched out of here with barely a word of good-bye. _(In spite of himself, John smiles. Molly responds in kind, visibly relaxing_.) And when I came back from lunch, I noticed he'd left his papers on the workbench, so I called his office to ask would he come back here soon or should I mail them to him, and Sally Donovan told me to mail them, because he'd gone out of town and she didn't know for how long. So it was quite obvious, really. _(With a little laugh)_ Not a difficult deduction _. (John nods absently. A pause.)_ So, anything I can do for you _? (Half hopeful, half apprehensive)_ Sherlock need anything?

JOHN: Actually, I – _(Hesitantly)_ You could do something for _me_ , Molly.

MOLLY: Oh. _(Smiling again)_ Right. What is it?

JOHN: If it isn't too much trouble, could you - could you run a test for me? Just a standard blood screening.

MOLLY _(readily):_ I think I could fit that in, yeah. Have you got the sample with you?

JOHN: If you've got a needle for me, you'll have it in a minute.

MOLLY: What? _Oh._ Right, of course.

 _She rummages in a drawer for the necessary equipment – needle, tube, tourniquet. Then she walks over to the washbasin to collect an antiseptic spray. When she returns, John has already taken off his jacket, and is rolling up the right sleeve of his chequered shirt._

MOLLY _(in a worried tone):_ Nothing serious, is it?

JOHN _(evasively):_ No, I don't think so. I'd just like to know that I'm not - imagining things.

MOLLY: Imagining things?

JOHN: Yeah, it's - _(He gestures at his leg.)_ It's happened to me before, you know.

 _He smiles a wry smile, but his eyes are on a spot above Molly's left shoulder, avoiding hers._

MOLLY _(with a sympathetic nod):_ Yes. Yes, I remember.

 _John sits on a stool, slings the tourniquet around his arm and pulls it tight, then takes the needle out of its package._

MOLLY _(pulling up her desk chair):_ Here, let me. It's so awkward, one-handed.

JOHN: Um - right. Thanks.

 _He hands her the needle. Splitting the necessary preparations between them, it's barely a moment until the needle goes into the crook of John's right arm._

MOLLY _(her eyes on the little tube that is filling steadily with John's blood):_ So, what exactly do you want me to look for?

JOHN _(matter-of-factly):_ Hallucinogenic drugs. Any kind.

MOLLY _(looking up at him, shocked):_ What? _(With an incredulous little laugh)_ Just what exactly have you two been up to?

JOHN: That's what I'd like to know, too.

MOLLY: Oh.

JOHN _(awkwardly, actually blushing a little_ ): But if you don't mind, I'm not -

MOLLY: Whoopsie. _(She hurries to withdraw the needle and detach the tube. Apologetically)_ Sorry. It comes so quickly when the heart's still beating. _(She picks up a piece of gauze and presses it onto the injection mark.)_ You were saying -

JOHN _(hurrying to get the words out):_ Just that I'm not keen on Sherlock hearing about this.  
 _  
He looks slightly guilty, and at any rate decidedly unhappy._

MOLLY _(after a moment):_ You're angry with him.

 _John heaves a sigh._

JOHN: A bit, yes.

 _He takes the gauze from Molly and continues pressing it onto his arm, while she carefully disposes of the used needle._

MOLLY: A bit quite a lot?

 _When John doesn't answer straight away, Molly pushes the tube aside on the workbench and slides her chair around so she sits facing John directly._

MOLLY _(quietly):_ What happened, John?

* * *

 _ **A little later,**_ _still in Molly's lab, John - with his sleeve rolled back down – has evidently just finished his account of the Baskerville case, while Molly has been listening attentively, one elbow propped on the workbench she's sitting at, and her head in her hand._

MOLLY: You know, I'd agree he was a bit of a sod for that, if I weren't completely sure that if the case had required it, he'd just as willingly have tried that stuff out on himself.

JOHN _(in a sudden outburst of frustration):_ Except funnily, our cases never seem to work like that. It always happens to be me.

MOLLY: Oh, now you're being unjust, John. I've seen him do it, you know. Touch things, _taste_ things, that no sane person would even want to come close to. You know, when Sherlock was doing his PhD, his professor had a bit of a reputation that way, so that's probably -

JOHN _(his anger momentarily forgotten, completely dumbstruck):_ Sherlock's got a PhD?

MOLLY _(matter-of-factly):_ As good as, yeah. Are you -

JOHN _(in a tone of utter disbelief):_ _Doctor_ Holmes?

MOLLY _(with a giggle):_ I know.

JOHN: And what do you mean, as good as?

MOLLY: He didn't really finish it. Or he did, but lost interest before the formalities were completed, and dropped out. _(With a smile)_ Mycroft told me, ages ago, that their parents have the certificate framed on their living room wall, but they take it down every time Sherlock comes to visit. I think it must have been his professor who saw his thesis published in the end.

JOHN _(under his breath):_ The things I _don't_ know. _(Aloud, to Molly)_ Chemistry, was it?

MOLLY: Yes. His professor was a world class toxicologist. A future Nobel laureate, by all accounts.

JOHN: "Was"?

MOLLY _(sadly):_ Yes, he - _(She hesitates, as if unsure whether she's already said too much.)_ He's dead now.

 _John nods slowly._

MOLLY: And anyway -

JOHN: Do you happen to know why he dropped out? Sherlock, I mean? He'd've easily -

MOLLY: - made his way in science? Of course, yes. It wasn't that, can't have been. He never talks about it, but I'd say - _(She breaks off again, and shakes her head.)_ I'd say it was something personal. I think he and the professor fell out, or something. I'm not sure, but -

JOHN: - but you have a theory?

MOLLY: Well, from the few hints that Mycroft ever dropped, I got the impression that his professor may have disapproved of, you know - experimenting on oneself for recreational purposes.

 _John sighs._

MOLLY: Sorry. I actually hate that expression. It's just so wrong.

JOHN _(sincerely):_ I hate it, too.

 _There is a silence. Then John squares his shoulders._

JOHN: Well, that brings us back to business, doesn't it? _(He nods at the blood sample.)_ When will you get round to it, d'you think?

MOLLY: Day after tomorrow? _(John's face falls.)_ I'm sorry, John, I can sneak you in, but I can't make you jump the queue as well, or there'll be questions. Come back Saturday night. I'll be working late shift then, and we'll have time to look over the results. _(In a reassuring tone)_ But seriously, if all four of you were exposed to it, and you were all fine again this morning, it's very unlikely that there's still a residue of whatever it was in your system now. Let alone a quantity that could cause actual bodily harm. _(She smiles a little sadly.)_ The other kind, you have to sort out yourself, I'm afraid.

JOHN _(resigned):_ Yeah, I know. It's – _(In a warmer tone)_ It's actually better already, Molly. _(He clears his throat.)_ Thanks for that.

MOLLY _(with equal warmth):_ You're welcome.

* * *

 _ **Outside Bart's.**_ _It has started to rain, and the street outside the main entrance of the hospital building is completely congested with cars, cabs and busses that forge ahead laboriously through the early evening rush hour. The large automatic glass doors open, and John comes walking out. Without stopping, he pops up the collar of his jacket and pulls up his shoulders against the rain, then continues along the pavement in the direction of the nearest tube station with his hands buried in his pockets. He passes a large black car stationed at the kerb and walks on for a few yards, when someone behind his back calls his name._

MAN'S VOICE _(off-screen):_ Doctor Watson?

 _John turns, frowning. A man in a black suit has got out of the car John has just walked past, and is now holding the rear door open._

MAN _(stiffly, but politely):_ If you please, Doctor Watson - just for a few moments.

 _John sighs and retraces his steps._

 _We cut to the inside of the car. In the back seat, in the far corner, Mycroft Holmes is sitting, dressed - as usual - in a crisp three-piece suit, his hands resting on the handle of his furled umbrella, which he has propped up between his feet. John has settled down in the other corner, looking resigned rather than intrigued at having been plucked off the street. Mycroft speaks up in the same meticulously polite tone that his aide or bodyguard addressed John in outside the car, but it leaves as little doubt whether John has a choice to comply with the speaker's request or not._

MYCROFT: May I relieve you of the necessity of making your way home in an overcrowded tube carriage full of wet commuters, John?

JOHN _(in a rather tired voice):_ I was going to say it depends on what you want in return, but I don't suppose I've got much of a choice.

 _Mycroft smiles smoothly, then leans forward to give instructions to his driver._

MYCROFT: Baker Street. But just around the corner today, please.

 _The driver nods, and the car surges out into the traffic. Mycroft settles back into his seat._

MYCROFT _(to John, in a conversational tone):_ So, you're back from ghost hunting in Dartmoor then, are you?

JOHN _(a little wearily):_ Can you please come straight to the point, Mycroft?

MYCROFT: That is precisely my point.

JOHN: I beg your pardon?

MYCROFT: You _have_ been ghost hunting.

JOHN _(with a frown):_ Yes. But the ghost turned out to be a very real and rather aggressive dog, and a just as real and even more dangerous man. Both ended up dead, so that's that.

 _There is a silence. The car drives on._

MYCROFT _(in a different tone, reluctantly, as if unsure how to word the question):_ But before you knew that, you weren't - how shall I say? You saw no reason to believe that Sherlock was simply - seeing things?

 _John grimaces as if at a memory, but he doesn't answer straight away. He searches Mycroft's face, but there appears to be only genuine concern in Sherlock's brother's expression, and no hint of ridicule._

JOHN _(unsettled):_ Are you – are you saying you're doubting your brother's sanity?

MYCROFT _(defensively):_ No, no, I'm not. _(With a sardonic smile)_ Not at the moment, at any rate. _(Serious again)_ No, but I am concerned.

 _There is another pause. Mycroft seems to be collecting his thoughts and searching for the right words again. The car is speeding up perceptibly. They have probably hijacked a taxi lane._

MYCROFT _(looking out of the window, as if to avoid John's eyes_ ): I'm concerned that he may have started to let things stand in his way.

 _He turns his face back towards his guest. John frowns again._

JOHN: I don't know what you mean.

MYCROFT: In the way of his work. That he may let his acuity and his judgement be clouded by -

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ \- oh, feelings? Or _(aping Mycroft's polished way of speaking)_ other equally unacceptable factors?

MYCROFT: You do know what I mean, don't you?

JOHN _(coolly):_ I do, but I don't see what it's got to do with our latest case.

MYCROFT: I wouldn't like to see him make a habit of going off on wild goose chases like that, on the whim of a moment. This one may have turned out to be justified by the result, but you must agree with me that my brother - you both - may equally well have made utter fools of yourselves in the process. _(In a rather condescending tone)_ Supernatural phenomena. Conspiracy theories. I ask you.

JOHN _(bluntly):_ You're just angry at us for sneaking into Baskerville.

MYCROFT: I admit that I wasn't exactly amused at that little stunt, no. But that isn't my point. My point is that it pains me to see my brother running around and staking his good name on -

JOHN _(with an incredulous laugh):_ Oh, now you're worried about his public image, are you? I can tell you, there's no one who could care less about that than he does, and it won't help in the least if you try and -

MYCROFT: No, John, you continue to misunderstand me. _(He sighs.)_ All that I care about is that he doesn't waste his time and his energy and his resources on chasing …phantasmagoria. _(He squares his shoulders.)_ You're one of the most grounded men I know, John. If you feel that in any of your upcoming cases, Sherlock seems to be going down a rather fantastical road again - do try and steer him back onto the rails of his accustomed rationality, will you? _(With a significant look at John)_ I'm relying on you to get through to him, if necessary. You have a better chance to than anyone else. _(He meets John's eyes directly, and waits until John nods. A moment later, the car they are in stops. Mycroft peers outside. In a business-like tone)_ Right then, here we are. This is Melcombe Street. I hope you won't take it amiss that I'm sending you on a short walk through the rain, instead of taking you right to your front door, but -

JOHN _(impatient to end the conversation, curtly):_ Yes, of course.

 _He opens the door and gets out._

MYCROFT _(calling after him, gravely):_ Keep it in mind, John.

 _John merely nods again, then the car door closes with a thud._

* * *

 _ **No. 221 Baker Street. The hall, lit but deserted.**_ _There is the sound of a key in the lock, and of the front door opening and closing. John, running his hand through his damp hair, enters the house. Immediately, Mrs Hudson comes hurrying out of her flat, looking scared._

MRS HUDSON _(gesturing up the stairs, breathlessly):_ John, please, someone's just gone up there, I thought a client, but now he's shouting all the time, I don't –

 _There is a loud thumping noise from upstairs, as of a man stomping furiously on the floor._

MAN'S VOICE _(bellowing with rage, off-screen):_ No! You listen to me! You say –

 _It is a deep, guttural voice with a heavy Slavic accent. In the blink of an eye, John has shaken off his weariness, and is taking the stairs three steps at a time. When he rushes through the open door of the living room of No. 221B and stops dead to get his bearings, he is met with a ludicrous sight. Sherlock, in his customary dark suit, is sitting comfortably in his armchair, with his hands on the armrests and his legs crossed, his fingers tapping against the black leather, not looking intimidated or put out in the least. In front of him, a man of undefinable age, rather short but with a chest like a barrel and a neck like a bull, is bouncing up and down with agitation, gesticulating wildly. He wears a workman's overalls, sturdy rubber boots, and a cap with the Manchester United logo on his shaved head. Since he has his back to the door, he does not see John entering._

MAN _(to Sherlock, blustering):_ You have no idea, you! You have three children in Moldova pay for school? Your father fight in Great Patriotic War? Your mother have weak heart and no money for doctor? You say, Igor take care of pig, you take care of money, but who take care of Igor's job, eh?

 _Sherlock, now looking decidedly amused, spots John standing in the door, ready to pounce._

SHERLOCK _(to the man):_ Can you be quiet for a moment? _(Over the man's head, to John)_ Hello, John. Nothing to worry about. ( _He jerks his head at his unpleasant visitor.)_ This is Igor. He's trying to articulate what ails him, not very successfully so far, but I'm sure that in the end, it'll all be fine.

IGOR _(to Sherlock):_ Fine, ha! _(He fumbles in his breast pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper and waves it agitatedly before Sherlock's eyes.)_ Fine, yes! This is fine! Five thousand pound! You fine man, you pay fine! _(In a tone of desperation)_ But I lose job!

 _Completely unimpressed, Sherlock takes the paper out of Igor's hand, unfolds it and glances over it._

SHERLOCK _(his eyes on the document):_ _Did_ you lose your job?

IGOR _(indignantly):_ No! But they say next time it happen, they kick me out!

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Oh, it won't happen again. I've gathered everything I wanted to know from our experiment, there'll be no need to repeat it. _(He folds the paper again and hands it back to Igor.)_ So calm down, please. This isn't good for your blood pressure.

IGOR _(shouting again, beet red in the face as if to prove the point):_ But five thousand pound! _(In a menacing tone)_ You pay, eh? Or _I_ come back with harpoon?

JOHN _(to Sherlock, in a tone of disbelief):_ Are you being blackmailed by Russian gangsters or something?

SHERLOCK: Oh, nothing of the sort. _(He shakes his head disapprovingly at Igor, then stands up, walks over to the desk and pulls his cheque book out of a drawer. Over his shoulder, to John)_ Just settling a bill.

JOHN _(not reassured at all):_ A bill for what exactly?

SHERLOCK _(while writing):_ For expenses incurred in the course of an investigation.

JOHN _(glancing at Igor, still seriously worried):_ Listen, if he's trying to–

SHERLOCK _(still writing, rather impatiently):_ John, please don't get worked up as well. One man in this room making an utter fool of himself is quite enough.

IGOR _(to Sherlock, shaking a fist at him):_ Oi, you careful, you! You make no fun with Igor!

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows at the man, in a mocking tone):_ I wouldn't dream of it.

IGOR _(even louder than before):_ You want bacon for breakfast, you treat Igor and friends like man, right, not like dog! You learn, eh, or we teach!

JOHN _(puzzled):_ Bacon? What's all this –

 _Sherlock, who has finished writing the cheque, straightens up and hands it to Igor, who snatches it out of Sherlock's hand so vehemently that he crushes the paper between his fingers._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Igor here has just been fined five thousand pounds by the Borough of Newham for harpooning a pig.

JOHN: Oh. _(He looks from Sherlock to Igor and back again.)_ But in fact it was you?

SHERLOCK: No, no, it's quite accurate. I held it down, but he was the one who actually ran it through.

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ There's a law against harpooning dead pigs?

SHERLOCK _(casually):_ No, it seems it was the live one they took exception to.

JOHN _(aghast):_ You two harpooned a _living_ pig?

SHERLOCK: Don't look so scandalised, John. Igor and his colleagues at the abattoir are experts, so it didn't suffer longer than absolutely necessary. It happens all the time when the anaesthetics don't kick in quickly enough, you know. It just rarely gets reported.

 _John grimaces. Igor, who has pocketed his cheque and fallen into a grumpy silence, is now in the process of lighting a cigarette._

SHERLOCK: Igor, outside, please. _(With a lopsided grin in John's direction)_ This is a strictly non-smoking household.

 _Igor gives Sherlock a look of utter contempt that he seems to reserve for people who are not real men, then turns on his heel, marches out of the room and stomps down the stairs, his still unlit cigarette between his fingers. Sherlock sighs and returns to his armchair._

JOHN _(relaxing):_ Right, so – at least that accounts for the mess, I suppose.

SHERLOCK _(glancing around the room, which is in no greater disorder than usual):_ What mess?

JOHN: The other day, I mean. When you went on the tube covered in gore, like something out of a horror movie.

SHERLOCK: I didn't go on the tube.

JOHN _(irritated):_ You said so.

SHERLOCK _(pedantically):_ No, I didn't. You merely inferred that I must have done.

JOHN _(sternly):_ You said so. You texted me, you said "Not home before nine, have to take the tube."

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ I intended to, yes. But you don't seriously think that I even got through the ticket barriers like that?

JOHN: What happened then?

SHERLOCK _(reaching for his laptop, already losing interest again):_ Oh, boring. Tedious discussions, threats of arrest, phone calls to Scotland Yard, great amusement on the part of a certain Detective Inspector known to us both, and a free lift home in a police car.

 _He places the computer on his knees, opens and starts it. John shakes his head, then shrugs out of his wet jacket, drops it on the arm of his chair, and walks over into the kitchen._

JOHN _(over his shoulder):_ But at least you solved that case, whatever it was.

SHERLOCK _(not looking up):_ Mmh. Maybe. _(He starts typing.)_

 _John, in the kitchen, switches the kettle on and starts busying himself with a mug and a tea bag, then after a few minutes of silence returns to the living room with his tea, and sits down in his chair. Just as he is about to pick up a newspaper, Sherlock closes his laptop again with a snap._

SHERLOCK: Have you unpacked your bag yet?

JOHN _(in a tone of surprise):_ What? No. Why?

SHERLOCK: Don't bother. We're about to take another trip to the countryside.

JOHN _(rather unenthusiastically):_ Oh, are we? Where to, this time?

SHERLOCK: North.


	2. Chapter 2

**_An aerial view of the City of Edinburgh and the surrounding region on the shores of the Firth of Forth,_** _a day or two later. We zoom in on the magnificent red steel structure of the Forth Bridge, with its huge arches marching away across the water, and just as we're hovering directly above it, a dark blue ScotRail train comes swooshing across it, racing north, into the rainy gloom ahead._

 ** _Inside the train,_** _Sherlock and John are sitting in two window seats facing each other, both huddled in coat and jacket respectively, both with paper cups of tea or coffee in their hands. John is looking out of the window into the grey afternoon, while Sherlock has his eyes closed, asleep or deep in thought. Suddenly, John sits bolt upright, as if he's just realised or remembered something, and takes out his phone. Sherlock opens one eye._

JOHN _(in response to the unasked question_ ): Nothing. I've just remembered that it's Saturday, and I need to – to cancel an appointment I made for tonight. _(One corner of Sherlock's mouth goes up in a smirk. Slightly peeved)_ And no, it wasn't what you think.

 _Sherlock snorts, then closes his eyes again. John starts typing on his phone. After a minute or two, he hits the "send" button, pockets his phone again, and leans back._

JOHN: And don't you think it's about time you told me what exactly we're going as far as Aberdeen for?

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Waste of time. We'd better wait until we have some solid facts to work with, not just what the press made of it.

JOHN _(crossing his arms):_ Seriously, Sherlock. If you don't tell me at least the bare bones of the case before we get there, I'll get off at the next station and take a train back to London straight away.

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice):_ Don't take your frustration out on me, please.

JOHN: What? Hey! _(He looks seriously annoyed now.)_ I _told_ you it wasn't -

 _Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow at his friend. John makes a little noise of anger, and shakes his head._

JOHN: Listen, I can live with sudden unforeseen changes to my weekend schedule. I can live with you never saying a single word all the way from King's Cross to Berwick-upon-bloody-Tweed. But I'm not going to look like an idiot when we actually get there and only one of us knows what we're supposed to be investigating.

 _Sherlock gives John a dirty look, then sighs._

SHERLOCK: Alright. _(He takes a sip from his paper cup, and pulls a face at the taste.)_ But remember that this is just what was in the news, so it's certainly incomplete, and probably inaccurate as well.

JOHN _(pointedly):_ Never mind that.

SHERLOCK _(rattling off the facts in a rather indifferent tone):_ A fortnight ago, a man was discovered missing from the closed ward of Ben Avon Psychiatric Hospital in Aberdeenshire. He'd been detained there for about eight years. The court had found him guilty of three cases of rape, one of which resulted in the death of the victim. But they had him sent to hospital rather than to prison on account of his mental state. His name was John Neligan _. (John nods. Sherlock continues in a slightly more animated tone.)_ The next day, in the same part of the county, a journalist from Aberdeen named Alan Gilroy decided to pay a friend of his a visit. That friend owned a cabin up in the Cairngorms, in the hills of the National Park, so Gilroy went up there to see him. He arrived around mid-morning, went in, and got the fright of his life. His friend was in there, but it wasn't a welcoming sight. He was dead as a doornail, pinned to the wooden back wall of his hut with a harpoon through his chest.

JOHN: Ah. Enter the pig.

SHERLOCK: Quite so.

JOHN: But a harpoon? In the Highlands?

SHERLOCK: In the Cairngorms. Do listen, John.

JOHN: Yeah, but I mean, miles from the sea, who would carry a harpoon around to kill people with?

SHERLOCK: Good point. Nobody carried it around. It was taken from a rack on the wall, where the owner of the hut kept several of the sort. Not a modern harpoon, John, but a historic one. Single-flue type, mid-nineteenth century. The owner of the hut was a descendant of a family of sea captains, whalers and sealers, from Dundee. He owned quite a collection of the weapons and tools of that trade, as well as all sorts of old books and documents about it. It wasn't just nostalgia, either. He was quite a specialist in that field.

JOHN: And then he got killed with one of his own weapons.

SHERLOCK: Ironically, yes.

JOHN: What happened then?

SHERLOCK: Gilroy called the police, of course. And they, no doubt, went through all the usual motions of messing up the crime scene to the best of their abilities, collecting heaps of useless evidence, and, in the process, destroying or obscuring all the clues that would really have mattered. And then at noon on the next day, the CID of the Grampian Police in Aberdeen held a press conference, at which they announced that the killer was in custody, and had confessed to the deed.

JOHN: And let me guess, that was -

SHERLOCK: John Neligan, of course. The escaped inmate from Ben Avon.

JOHN: And now Neligan's family has asked you to look into the matter?

SHERLOCK _(with a snort):_ Oh, not them. If anything, they'll be grateful to have an additional reason now to see him locked up for the rest of his life. Remember, John, he's a rapist, the sort that kills without turning a hair just to stifle his victims' cries. And his oldest victim - his _oldest_ \- was six. The one who actually died was four. _(John grimaces in disgust and sympathy.)_ Nobody would lift a finger for someone like that.

JOHN: I suppose not. _(He frowns.)_ Then who is our client?

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, no one. This is purely _l'art pour l'art_.

JOHN _(after a moment):_ Right, I suspect I'm missing the obvious here. But what exactly is there in that case to make us travel from one end of the country to the other, when the killer is already identified and caught? I mean, a man with a known propensity for violence goes on the run, tries to take shelter in a holiday home he thinks is deserted, gets caught by the owner, and kills him to make his escape. Sounds like barely a three to me. Apart from the rather original murder weapon -

SHERLOCK _(in a tone of satisfaction):_ There you are.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: Have you ever tried to put a harpoon through a grown man, John?

JOHN _(pulling a face):_ Jesus, no. Of course not.

SHERLOCK: You should try. And then you'd see within seconds what's so interesting about this case _. (He takes another sip of his drink, watching John over the rim of the cup.)_

JOHN: So... you got hold of a historic mid-nineteenth century single-flue harpoon somewhere -

SHERLOCK _(with a brief grin):_ Straight from Greenwich. Director owes me a favour.

JOHN: - took it to an abattoir, and then set about an innocent pig, with the help of that man Igor, just to find out what it feels like to harpoon someone?

SHERLOCK _(nonchalantly):_ Yes, well, I couldn't find a human being who was willing to let me try a more accurate reconstruction, so I had to resort to lower life forms to make it work.

JOHN: Make what work, exactly?

SHERLOCK _(suddenly serious again):_ Prove that it is absolutely impossible for John Neligan to have murdered the owner of that hut.

JOHN: Oh. _(A pause.)_ Which means -

SHERLOCK: - that whoever did it got away with it, and is still out there, for all we know.

 _John lets out a long breath and leans back in his seat. Then his hand, almost unconsciously, goes to the right pocket of his jacket, giving it a quick, reassuring pat._

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ Still thinking about getting off at the next station?

* * *

 ** _Later._** _Rain has started beating against the windows of the railway carriage, obscuring the view of the countryside. The train is still rumbling on bravely through the inhospitable weather. The two friends have fallen silent again, and the silence is broken only when the phone in John's pocket pings a text alert. John takes it out, reads the message, and does a double take. Then he shoots Sherlock a quick covert look, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice._

JOHN _(his eyes back on the phone, in a carefully neutral tone):_ Where are we now?

SHERLOCK: Just outside _(pronouncing the place name with ridiculous accuracy)_ Arbroath.

JOHN _(pulling a face):_ Sounds like someone being sick.

SHERLOCK _(amused):_ You know, for someone with a middle name like yours, you show a surprising contempt of all things Gaelic.

JOHN _(grumpily):_ Surprising? You would, too, with _that_ name.

 _Sherlock shrugs. John starts typing on his phone._

JOHN _(after a moment, still typing):_ D'you have one, too, by the way? A middle name, I mean?

SHERLOCK _(with a faint smile, which John doesn't see):_ Yes, I have. But don't expect any big surprises.

JOHN _(not really listening):_ Okay. _(A moment later)_ Right, how d'you spell it?

SHERLOCK: What, my middle name?

JOHN: No, the place.

SHERLOCK: A – R – why?

 _John looks up, puzzled._

JOHN: "Ary-" ?

SHERLOCK _(patiently):_ No, why as in what for.

JOHN _(his eyes returning to the screen of his phone, innocently):_ Because Molly Hooper's just said "I hope you're not in Aberdeen", and since we aren't, I'd like to put her mind at rest.

 _Sherlock stares at his friend, thunderstruck._

JOHN _(still not looking at Sherlock):_ And then I was going to ask _you_ why she thinks that we shouldn't be.

 _Sherlock blinks, swallows, but says nothing._

JOHN _(in a tone of studied indifference, his eyes still on his phone):_ But then, maybe not. It's probably no use anyway, since this doesn't seem to be one of your talkative days. I'll try again tomorrow, shall I?

 _Sherlock clears his throat as if to reply, but when John still refuses to meet his eyes, he changes his mind, snaps his mouth shut again, and turns his head away towards the window. The reflection of his face in the rain-spattered glass makes it look for a moment as if there are tears running down his cheeks. John types on._


	3. Chapter 3

**_A quiet residential street in a suburb of Aberdeen,_** _hemmed in on either side by a long row of small, unpretentious, completely identical terraced houses with grey granite facades. Dusk has fallen, and the streetlights are on. There is no one to be seen, no traffic in the road, no pedestrians on the pavement. But there are lit windows in almost every house, cosy dots of light in the gloom of the early evening. A taxi – not a distinctive London cab, but just an ordinary silver grey car with a taxi sign on the roof – turns the corner and continues along the street. About half-way along, it stops at the kerb, outside a house that is distinguishable from its neighbours only by its bright blue front door with a brass number "15" on it. Sherlock and John get out of the taxi, John lingering at the open car window to pay the driver, Sherlock turning this way and that to get his bearings. Then the taxi drives on without them, and they're left standing on the pavement outside number fifteen, each of them with a small overnight bag beside them._

JOHN _(looking around the quiet neighbourhood):_ So, what exactly are we doing here?

SHERLOCK: Gathering data. Remember, all we've got so far is what was in the news. Shaky ground to build any valid conclusions on, isn't it?

JOHN: Yeah, sure.

SHERLOCK _(confidently):_ So I thought the first step to complete the picture would be to consult the man who was in charge of the investigation.

JOHN _(doubtfully):_ Erm, right. So now we're just going to knock on a policeman's door and ask him to hand over the file, or something?

SHERLOCK _(with an enigmatic smile):_ Wait and see.

 _He walks up the garden path to the door of number fifteen, John following with both their bags, and rings the bell. A moment later, the door is opened by an athletic man in his thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark blonde hair and a friendly, ruddy-cheeked face. He is dressed casually in jeans and a polo shirt, and he is so large that he fills almost the whole doorway. But in the golden glow of light from inside the house, we can see that the hall behind him is decorated in a burst of glittering colours, with balloons and streamers and garlands in all colours of the rainbow hanging on the walls and from the ceiling. They quiver slightly in the draft. When the man in the door sees who his visitors are, his jaw drops in astonishment._

MAN _(in a strong Scottish accent):_ Bloody hell. Sherlock Holmes?

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ In person.

 _The man in the door takes a moment to find the right words._

MAN: Jesus. It's been _ages_. You sure you're real?

 _Sherlock holds out his hand to him. The man takes it, and grins._

SHERLOCK: Five years, two months and eighteen days exactly, MacDee. I was going to say that you look it, too, but you don't. Well done. _(He lets go of the man's hand and half-turns towards John to make the introductions.)_ MacDee, this is Doctor John Watson _. (To John)_ John, Alec Macdonald, Detective - _(He hesitates, turns back to MacDee, frowns, then smiles a slightly ironic half-smile.)_ \- Inspector now, is it?

MACDEE _(astonished):_ What? How did you - not even Greg - _(He quickly glances around at the colourful decorations in the hall, and blushes crimson.)_ No, no, this isn't - Ewan's just turned five, it's just - _(Seeing Sherlock's rather amused expression, he breaks off. Resigned)_ Oh, hang it. _(He takes a step back into the house, making room.)_ Come in! Come right in!

 _Sherlock and John enter the house, carefully stepping over an assortment of children's wellies scattered all over the doormat, and into a hallway that - even without the decorations – is so narrow that a man of MacDee's stature can barely walk down it without brushing against both walls at once. On the right hand side, an equally narrow, carpeted flight of stairs leads up to the upper floor of the house. Once the three men are all inside, there is barely room to turn. John closes the door behind them._

MACDEE _(calling down the hall):_ Cat! Look who it is!

 _At the back of the hall, in the doorway to the kitchen, MacDee's wife Catriona appears. She is a petite young woman with a heart-shaped, liberally freckled face, intensely green wide-set eyes that do justice to her nickname, and a long mane of flaming red hair done up in a ponytail. She is carrying a young girl, barely two years old but the spitting image of her mother, on her hip, and her tight-fitting t-shirt reveals a solid second trimester bump. Seeing the strangers, the child huddles closer against her mother and hides her face on her shoulder._

MACDEE _(with almost proprietary pride):_ Cat, this is Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John Watson.

 _Cat's eyes go wide, then she breaks into a delighted grin._

CAT: Well I never! _(Her accent is, if anything, even stronger than her husband's. She frees a hand to hold it out to Sherlock. Very cordially)_ Mr Holmes! About time, too! _(Her gaze travels up to Sherlock's hair, which she eyes with the air of an expert. To her husband)_ You were totally right. _(To Sherlock)_ I covet your hair. Are you sure it isn't in need of a cut?

 _Sherlock frowns. John screws up his face in sympathy, clearly expecting the poor girl to be in for a very unpleasant rebuff. But then Sherlock's expression relaxes into a brief, if preoccupied, smile._

SHERLOCK: Maybe later, when we're done.

 _John looks stumped, but Cat just smiles back._

CAT: We're closed til Tuesday now anyway.

SHERLOCK: That should suffice.

MACDEE: Suffice for what exactly? _(He looks from Sherlock to John and back.)_ If you don't mind me asking?

CAT: Oh, not on the doorstep, MacDee. _(She reaches across and shakes hands with John, too.)_ Doctor Watson. It's so great to meet you. MacDee and I devour everything you write on your blog.

 _John politely inclines his head, clearly pleased with the compliment._

MACDEE _(to John):_ And then I call Greg, and he fills me in on everything you've left out.

CAT _(with a grin):_ And we cackle like maniacs.

 _John shoots Sherlock another slightly worried look, but Sherlock only pulls a little face and doesn't comment. MacDee opens the door leading off the hall into the living room._

MACDEE: Come in, take a seat.

CAT: I'll make tea.

* * *

 ** _A moment later,_** _Sherlock and John are in the Macdonalds' living room. It is furnished in an incongruous combination of traditional plushy cosiness and cheap IKEA-style pragmatism, slightly less claustrophobic in its dimensions than the hallway, but even more cluttered, and also still sporting the remnants of decorations for a child's birthday party._

 _One half of the room is entirely taken up by a large dining table with brightly coloured plastic place mats on it. In the other half, two double seater sofas face each other across a large coffee table littered with coloured paper, pens, glue, pots of finger paint, empty cardboard boxes and all the other paraphernalia of a serious, if as yet unrecognisable, crafting project. The carpet is strewn with more pens and paper, toy blocks, toy cars from a miniature race course that is set up in a corner, stuffed animals, a doll, an upside down doll's pram, sofa cushions, crushed ends of paper streamers, a single striped sock, and several dummies. On one of the sofas, a boy of the same age as the girl on Cat's arm - clearly her twin - is fast asleep, clutching a plush lion to his chest._

 _Sherlock has taken a seat on the other sofa, and John is in an armchair at right angles to him. They both look utterly out of place in that cheerful, chaotic family home. But while John perches slightly uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, fully aware of being an intruder, Sherlock doesn't seem to find anything odd about the situation. MacDee, returning from taking their coats back to the hall, walks over and sits down gingerly on the sofa the little boy sleeps on, careful not to wake him._

MACDEE: Sorry about the mess. It's been raining all afternoon, so things got a bit wild with everyone cooped up in here. _(Nodding towards the little sleeping redhead)_ Angus just collapsed at some point. _(He leans forward and makes an attempt at straightening some of the clutter on the coffee table.)_ Ewan is lurking upstairs somewhere, but he'll be down in no time when we tell him who's come _. (He looks up at Sherlock, then at John, and smiles a little distractedly.)_ Greg is his godfather, you know, so Ewan's heard his fill of stories about you two.

JOHN _(to MacDee, hesitantly):_ Yes, well - I'm feeling a bit slow right now, but _you_ -

 _He looks across at Sherlock for clarification._

SHERLOCK: MacDee used to be with the Met.

JOHN: Oh.

SHERLOCK: Sally Donovan's predecessor.

JOHN: _Oh._

MACDEE _(to John):_ Sorry, I thought you'd _– (He glances at Sherlock with a frown, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.)_ Well, never mind. _(To John, warmly)_ I worked with Greg Lestrade for three years, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that I learned all that matters from him.

 _Sherlock snorts, but he has the decency to do it quietly rather than ostentatiously. Still, MacDee looks a bit miffed._

MACDEE _(to John, with the slightest emphasis in the pronoun):_ If _you_ know what I mean.

JOHN _(sincerely):_ I think I do.

 _He directs a reproachful look at Sherlock, but it is lost on his friend. At this moment, Cat enters the room. She is carrying a tea tray, and threads her way through the clutter on the floor with practised ease. Her daughter is tagging along in her wake, clutching her mother's trouser leg. MacDee glances up affectionately at his wife._

MACDEE: But then I went back to hearth and home here in Aberdeen.

SHERLOCK: And you've been busy.

 _John glances at the sleeping child; then at the twin sister, who is now trying to hide behind her mother's legs; then at Cat, whose physique so obviously heralds the arrival of a fourth young Macdonald in the not so far future; and then back at his friend. His face expresses both surprise and amusement that Sherlock, of all people, should joke about such things. He exchanges a look with MacDee, grinning. MacDee returns the grin, if a little sheepishly._

MACDEE: Well, we definitely are busy now.

SHERLOCK _(rolling his eyes):_ I was talking about your work. _(He leans back in his seat and crosses his legs.)_ You're an inspector now.

MACDEE _(modestly):_ Only since last Wednesday. And a lot earlier than it would have happened at the Met, too.

JOHN _(doubtfully):_ More spectacular cases up here?

CAT _(with a grin):_ Much less competition.

MACDEE _(good-naturedly):_ Hey!

 _Cat, who has put down the tray on the coffee table, starts pouring tea for everyone, still grinning._

MACDEE _(to Sherlock):_ And anyway, I'd still like to know how you could tell.

SHERLOCK _(with a wave of his hand, lightly):_ Oh, your posture, your voice, your general demeanour - quite different from the sergeant that I used to know. You've definitely got the gravitas of an inspector now.

 _He accepts a cup of tea from Cat with a nod of thanks, blows on it gently, then takes a sip, watching MacDee over the rim of his cup. His face is inscrutable. MacDee turns to John as if for support._

MACDEE _(to John, comically indignant):_ D'you know that feeling when -

JOHN _(drily):_ Excellently well.

 _Cat, who has been looking on with great amusement, now bends down and gently detaches her daughter's hand from her clothes._

CAT: Come on, Moira love, sit with daddy, while I look about some food. _(To Sherlock and John)_ I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I got home not ten minutes before you came. You know, Saturdays - hairdressers' busiest days. _(John gives Sherlock another very reproachful look. Sherlock ignores it.)_ But I can knock something together in no time. You had any supper yet? I could see about some rowies.

JOHN: I have no idea what those are, but to be honest, anything with calories in it would be great now. Sherlock?

 _Sherlock merely nods absently. Cat smiles again and leaves the room for the kitchen. MacDee pulls little Moira up to sit on his knee. She snuggles up against him, now brave enough to actually face the two visitors. She regards them with huge eyes, just as green as her mothers'. John smiles kindly at her and holds out his hand._

JOHN: Hi. I'm John.

 _She makes a little sound of protest and turns her face away._

MACDEE: She's a bit shy around strangers.

 _Sherlock, who has until now ignored the children and everything to do with them completely, turns his gaze on her._

SHERLOCK: Very wise, that. _(To Moira)_ Don't unlearn it too quickly.

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ Oh, stop being cheerful, Sherlock.

MACDEE _(hugging his daughter more closely to his chest, thoughtfully):_ Well, he's kind of right, isn't he? I mean, statistically, Aberdeen is paradise, compared to London. But that doesn't mean we don't get the occasional nastiness here, too. It's not like I'm kicking my heels. With only two teams to cover all of Aberdeenshire and Moray in terms of Homicide and Serious Crime, I get around a lot more than I did in London. _(He smiles.)_ But it means more fresh air and less time for paperwork. All good.

SHERLOCK: Not bound to get better though, is it, when you become Police Scotland next year?

MACDEE: And everything will be ordered according to the fancies of some pencil pushers in Edinburgh, you mean? Well, there are pros and cons, as always. But on the whole, it can only do us good to speak with one voice. _(He leans back, stretching one arm comfortably along the back of the sofa.)_ You know, since the Scottish National Party's huge success in last year's election, there's been a strong drive here in Scotland towards centralising and strengthening Scottish institutions. I truly think we're gearing up for independence. The referendum is still a couple of years away, but they're negotiating it right now, so it's going to happen. And if you look at the current state of public opinion, I think I can predict what the outcome will be. The First Minister has always been a very vocal advocate of independence, of course – bit too loud, sometimes, maybe – but he's not alone. _(Sherlock, who has evidently stopped listening a good while ago, stifles a yawn.)_ Seriously, you should meet our local SNP leaders. Some of them can really set the crowds on fire with the idea of a strong, self-governed Scotland. I went to hear Coinneach MacMillan last weekend, he was amazing. You can tell he -

JOHN: Coinneach MacMillan?

MACDEE: Yeah, Coinneach MacMillan, MSP. He's all over the place, since he was elected last year, and destined for greater things, too, by the look of it. Salmond is doing a decent enough job, but he won't be around forever. Not a few people've got their money on MacMillan being our next First Minister.

SHERLOCK _(slightly more awake again):_ MacMillan, as in rubbish?

MACDEE: Yep, the same. _(To John)_ Runs a huge waste disposal and recycling company here in Aberdeen, MacMillan Disposal, but he's doing it the right way. Came up with all sorts of innovative technologies, won all sorts of EU awards… _(To Sherlock, who looks very sceptical)_ He really means it. Loves his country. MacMillan Disposal's a big sponsor of the Cairngorms National Park. Built them a new Visitor Centre at Braemar when the old facility was near collapsing, funded all sorts of research into rare and endangered wildlife -

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ And at the same time secured his waste collection contract with the shire council for the next ten years?

MACDEE _(with a shrug):_ Yeah, alright. Nobody's an angel. But he's not ripping anyone off, and I'd rather see that in the hands of a local, too, than of some big faceless corporation from –

JOHN _(with good-natured mischief):_ \- south of Hadrian's Wall?

MACDEE _(with a grin):_ Right. You said that. But – _(He straightens up again, careful not to dislodge the girl in his arms.)_ All in all, it's a good time to be Scottish, if you know what I mean. Things really are on the move. _(He smiles. Sherlock makes a non-committal noise.)_ But you're right, I _am_ prattling. Anyway, your turn now. What are you up to? Or are you telling me you just happened to be skiing in the Cairngorms and decided to come over for a chat?

SHERLOCK: No, we're here on business.

MACDEE: What is it, then? On our particular front, it's been a quiet winter here. Apart from the one case that made the national news, of course.

SHERLOCK _(putting his hands together in front of him, in a carefully neutral tone):_ And that got solved, to everyone's satisfaction, within twenty-hour hours.

MACDEE _(proudly):_ Sometimes we do get it right on our own, you know.

 _Sherlock doesn't reply, merely looks at the Scotsman over his folded hands, one eyebrow raised. Slowly, the smile fades from MacDee's face, and an almost pained expression takes its place._

MACDEE _(deflating):_ Oh, please not. _Please_ not.

 _At this moment, the door is pushed open, and there is the tinny loudspeaker sound of a siren from out in the hall. Then a remote-controlled toy police car comes racing into the room, blue lights flashing. It stops just short of John's armchair. John playfully pulls up his feet as if to avoid a collision._

MACDEE _(looking across to the door):_ Not _now_ , Ewan.

 _The boy who has just entered the room, unlike his younger siblings, clearly takes after his father. He's tall and strong for his age, with unruly sand-coloured hair and healthy pink cheeks. He sidles up to where the men are sitting, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, who returns the boy's scrutiny with equal frankness. Ewan perches on the armrest of the sofa, next to his father, and, after a moment of silence, speaks up boldly._

EWAN _(to Sherlock):_ You're a detective.

 _Sherlock nods gravely._

EWAN: Uncle Greg says you're a really good one.

SHERLOCK: I try.

EWAN: Are you as good as my dad?

SHERLOCK: Is anyone, d'you think?

EWAN _(with complete conviction):_ My dad's the best in Scotland.

SHERLOCK: I'd never contest that.

 _Over Ewan's head, John and MacDee exchange a smile, John genuinely amused, MacDee half bursting with pride and half embarrassed._

EWAN _(to Sherlock):_ You're not an inspector, are you?

SHERLOCK: No. But I want to be one when I grow up.

EWAN _(with a radiant smile):_ Me, too.

MACDEE _(to his son):_ And now run and see if you can help mum set the table, alright?

EWAN _(not listening, now shifting his attention to John):_ And you're a doctor.

JOHN _(with equal gravity):_ Yes.

EWAN: And a soldier, Greg says.

JOHN: I used to be, yes.

EWAN: Why did you stop, then?

 _There is an awkward silence._

CAT _(off-screen, calling from the kitchen):_ Sergeant Ewan? I need some backup here!

EWAN _(successfully distracted, calling back_ ): What for?

 _Cat appears in the open doorway, holding a pot of strawberry jam in her hand._

CAT _(in a stern voice): This._ This is empty. It's in the fridge, but it's empty. You solve me _that_ case right now.

 _She turns and disappears again. Ewan grins, picks up his remote control, steers his police car backwards in an elegant turn and then out through the open door and into the kitchen, trudging after it. MacDee watches him out of the room with a smile on his face, then turns back towards Sherlock, serious again._

MACDEE: So you _are_ here for the Bell murder.

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course.

MACDEE _(with a sigh):_ And you think we got it wrong. _(He runs a hand over his face.)_ Alright, tell me why. No, don't, actually. Not now. _(He glances down at his little daughter on his lap.)_ The kids get to hear enough crazy stuff in this house as it is, no need to add more.

 _He smiles again, but it is a strained smile this time. Sherlock shrugs._

* * *

 ** _Ten minutes later,_** _the Macdonald family and their guests are installed at the dining table, and everyone is tucking into the delicious salty rolls called rowies in Aberdeen. Everyone except Sherlock and Ewan next to him, that is. Sherlock is holding the open, empty strawberry jam pot in his hand, peering into it while he turns it this way and that to make every tiny detail catch the light. Ewan observes his every move with rapt attention._

SHERLOCK _(to Cat, very seriously):_ And this was definitely still half full after breakfast this morning?

CAT _(playing along readily):_ Definitely.

SHERLOCK _(to Ewan):_ So, not to complicate things too much, we'll assume that your mum is a good witness who gets her facts right, as well as a decent person who doesn't lie.

EWAN: Alright.

 _Sherlock glances quickly over to the other end of the table, where little Angus sits in his high chair. He is kicking his short legs against the table and making a terrible mess of his supper, now adding brown marmite stains to some pre-existing red ones on his t-shirt._

SHERLOCK: And our chief suspect is obviously your younger brother.

EWAN _(following Sherlock's gaze, slyly):_ Stains on his t-shirt?

SHERLOCK: Mmh. But that isn't the whole truth, of course _. (He turns his pale eyes back on Ewan and fixes him with a piercing stare.)_ Are you still sure you want me to solve that case for you?

 _Ewan nods. Sherlock holds out the jam pot to his little pupil._

SHERLOCK: Someone's used an instrument to empty this. A spoon, not a knife. Look at the tracks in the residue of jam along the inner walls of the pot, they're smooth but narrow, clearly made by the tip of a spoon. _(He picks up the knife on his plate with his other hand and holds it out to Ewan.)_ Your knives have these little teeth all along the blade. If someone had scraped the jam out of the pot with one of these, like you'd do at breakfast to spread it on your toast, the tracks would have been broad and rippled instead.

 _Ewan is beginning to look a little apprehensive._

EWAN: What's the spoon got to do with it?

SHERLOCK: It reduces our number of possible suspects considerably.

EWAN: What? Why?

SHERLOCK: Because your sensible parents have certainly drilled it into your little heads not to play with knives, and you're good boys who do what their parents tell them, aren't you?

 _Ewan, when he realises the implications, looks shocked, then turns beet red._

CAT _(indignantly):_ Ewan!

EWAN _(to Sherlock, defensively):_ Why d'you think it was me, too, and not just Angus?

SHERLOCK: Because he's too short to reach up to the top drawer where you keep the cutlery, of course. You, however, are easily tall enough for that.

CAT: No, seriously, Mr Holmes. You've never even been in our kitchen. How do you know where -

SHERLOCK: Have you ever been in a kitchen where the cutlery _isn't_ kept in a top drawer? Particularly in a family where the main householder would currently do everything to avoid stooping or squatting down unnecessarily?

 _Cat exchanges a look with her husband and shakes her head in disbelief. MacDee looks greatly amused. So does John._

SHERLOCK _(to the room at large, rapid fire deduction mode):_ Standard height of a kitchen worktop is thirty-five inches, which puts the upper edge of the top drawer at just over thirty-three. _(He jerks his head at Angus.)_ Too high for a toddler who's no more than two feet nine, at best. _(To Cat)_ Setting aside the possibility that you had your kitchen furniture built in at a considerably lower level to suit your own modest height, that is. Unlikely though. You may be the one who ends up doing most of the housework anyway, but _(with a nod at MacDee)_ the man you're married to certainly entertains strong enough delusions about modern gender roles not to want to be actually technically unable to do his share.

 _Cat and MacDee exchange another look, not so amused any more._

JOHN _(in an aside to MacDee):_ That was actually a compliment, I think.

MACDEE _(resigned):_ Yeah, I know.

SHERLOCK _(peering into the empty jam pot again, to Ewan):_ Besides, I doubt even a two-year-old with age-appropriate fine motor skills could have made such a clean job of it, and _(with another glance at poor Angus)_ your little brother's development in that respect is at least half a year behind the statistical average anyway _. (John winces. Cat opens her mouth as if to protest on behalf of her son, but Sherlock talks right over her, the words tumbling out still faster.)_ And I don't think that a two-year-old would see the necessity of covering up one's tracks and delaying exposure by deliberately placing the empty pot back into the fridge after the deed, either _. (To the parents)_ That requires a degree of foresight not usually found in children before the fifth birthday. _(To Ewan)_ So, conclusion, you and Angus together helped yourselves to a little treat while your dad was busy changing Moira's nappies upstairs, sometime this afternoon _. (To MacDee)_ At least I can think of no other reason why you'd have let them out of your sight long enough to make short work of this amount of jam. But I find it rather endearing, I admit, that Ewan shared the booty with his little brother. Unless you want to argue, of course, that he did that only because he'd have been smart enough to know that if he'd tried to keep it all for himself, Angus would have made enough of a ruckus to call you back downstairs, and thus would have given the whole game way. _(He looks from MacDee to Cat and back again.)_ But I'd say that's rather improbable, given the obvious intellectual limits of his genetic make-up.

 _He pops out the last "p" loudly, then puts the empty pot back down on the table with a clank, looking very pleased with himself. There is a dumbfounded silence from his audience. John is sitting with his face screwed up in a pained expression, while MacDee and Cat stare at each other in great consternation. Then little Moira knocks over her glass and floods her side of the table with milk, and at the same moment, Cat breaks out laughing. MacDee immediately joins in, visibly relieved. John relaxes._

CAT _(to Sherlock, giggling helplessly):_ Oh golly. You're _worse_ than Greg says. _Worse._ _(Pointing her finger at her oldest son, trying but failing to put on a serious face)_ But I'll have a word with you yet, young man!

EWAN _(stubbornly):_ It wasn't me!

SHERLOCK _(to Ewan, coolly):_ Shall I tell her where you hid the dirty spoons, too?

EWAN _(very loudly):_ No!

 _Another burst of hearty laughter goes around the table. Even Ewan abandons his expression of indignant innocence, and joins in. Sherlock is the only one who doesn't._

SHERLOCK _(to Ewan, gravely):_ Cardinal rule of criminal investigation, Ewan: No one is above suspicion, no one. Never rule out that there could be a bad apple in your own ranks _. (He abruptly turns to MacDee.)_ Am I right?

MACDEE _(chuckling):_ Oh, sure.

 _Still grinning, he gets up and heads for the kitchen to find a cloth and clean up Moira's mess._

CAT _(wiping tears, to John):_ I did think that you were exaggerating sometimes, on your blog.

JOHN _(sincerely):_ Never.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

My version of Inspector Alec Macdonald of Aberdeen - universally called MacDee - makes his first appearance, as Sally Donovan's predecessor and Greg Lestrade's right-hand man and staunch friend, in "Aiding and Abetting". But you don't need to read that story first to get what's going on in this one.

I also freely admit that while I love that country, I am not Scottish and will never be. If you see the need, feel free to Scot-pick.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Supper is over,_** _and Catriona has left to put the children to bed. Only Sherlock, John and MacDee remain at the table. MacDee has fetched a couple of beers from the kitchen, and is filling two glasses. He hands one to John and keeps the other for himself, then sits back down. Sherlock sticks to water._

MACDEE _(soberly):_ So. The Bell murder. _(Grimacing)_ Not one of our successes then, was it?

JOHN: Sorry, "bell"?

SHERLOCK _(curtly):_ The name of the victim. Joseph Bell.

JOHN: Right. _(The name obviously means nothing to him. He raises his glass to MacDee.)_ Cheers.

MACDEE _(with a smile):_ Here's tae ye.

 _They drink._

JOHN _(to MacDee, by way of explanation):_ I somehow missed the whole thing when it was in the papers.

SHERLOCK: John was meeting up with some former brothers in arms in Aldershot that weekend, and was still too hung over on Monday to bother catching up.

JOHN: Hey!

SHERLOCK: Which part of that wasn't true?

 _John rolls his eyes._

SHERLOCK ( _ignoring John, to MacDee):_ And we all know just how reliable the media are, anyway. So, now I'm looking forward to hearing what really happened.

MACDEE: What, from me? I thought you were sure we got it wrong?

SHERLOCK _(generously):_ Oh, maybe not absolutely everything. You tell us what you've got, and then I'll be happy to point out where you went astray.

MACDEE _(a little grumpily):_ Aye, I'm sure you'll be. But alright, your way. _(He leans back in his chair.)_ On Friday, two weeks ago, we got called out to Joseph Bell's hut in Glen Quoich, above Braemar. Two uniformed colleagues from the local force were already there, and of course Bell's friend Alan Gilroy. _(To John)_ That's the journalist who found him. _(John nods.)_ They were waiting for us outside, all three of them looking a bit peaky, and when I went in there, I knew why. Really not a pretty sight. Bell was kind of hanging there on the back wall of his hut, with that six foot long thing sticking out of his chest, blood and what-not else all over the place. It _stank._ Our forensics team isn't exactly made up of wimps, you know, but even so they kept coming out for a breath of fresh air every couple of minutes. I was glad to let them carry on and talk to Gilroy instead.

SHERLOCK: That wound from the harpoon was definitely the cause of death?

MACDEE: No doubt about it. Ruptured his heart, so thoroughly that it never got the chance for another beat. _(John grimaces. Sherlock, however, seems completely unmoved.)_ Why, were you thinking that he actually died from something else, and then was set up like that afterwards, for effect?

SHERLOCK: There was no other wound on the body?

MACDEE: Not that I can recall. At least nothing that could have been fatal. But for more details, I'd have to look at the medical report again. So, while the lads from forensics were at it, I talked to Gilroy, who said he'd come up there that morning to check on Bell. He'd -

SHERLOCK: To "check" on him?

MACDEE: That's what he said.

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ It just said "visit" in the papers, didn't it?

 _Sherlock nods._

MACDEE: No, "check" is definitely more like it. He said he'd been worrying about Bell, and wanted to make sure he was fine.

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ Why?

JOHN _(taking another sip of his beer, under his breath):_ Because that's what friends do?  
 _  
_ _Sherlock shoots John an irritated look, then turns back to MacDee._

SHERLOCK: What had him worried?

MACDEE _(with a shrug):_ Gilroy and Bell had arranged to meet up on the day before. But then, a day or two before _that_ , Bell rang to call it all off again. Said he was working on something, wasn't finished yet and wanted no distractions until he was, or words to that effect. And that he'd call again, but then he never did.

JOHN: Working on something? I thought it was his holiday home?

MACDEE _(with a laugh):_ That's a bloody euphemism, in every sense of the word. _(He pauses to drink.)_ It's a rough place. No electricity, no running water, no heating except a wood stove. And Bell did work there. He was a volunteer for the National Park. You know, the sort that counts birds and their eggs, and repairs fences and signposts. His hut was full of books on the local flora and fauna. Maps and posters of the Park pinned to the walls, binoculars lying around, sturdy hiking boots and waterproofs still drying by the stove even when we got there. Out in all weathers, that one. Both of them. Birds of a feather, Bell and Gilroy. Gilroy writes on just about anything to make ends meet, but nature is what he, too, really cares about. Quite the environmentalist. Has written a lot on the Park. Not afraid to call a spade a spade, either. North sea oil spills, endangered species, soil damage done by the skiing industry – you name it, he's put his finger on it. I'd met him a couple of times before, actually, when he reported wildlife crimes to us. Spot on every time.

SHERLOCK _(with a hint of impatience_ ): So, the crime scene -

MACDEE _(apologetically):_ Right, sorry. Back to the facts.

SHERLOCK: What did you gather from the state of the hut?

MACDEE: Other than that its owner had just died a very messy death in there, you mean? Not so easy. It's the sort of place where it's hard to tell what's normal and what's not.

JOHN: No sign of a forced entry? Or of a struggle?

MACDEE: Oh, that. Well, the door was unlocked when Gilroy got there. Bell was still in his day clothes when he died. His pyjamas were on his bunk in a corner, and the bed was neatly made, so he must have been still up and about when his killer came visiting. Fits with his time of death, too. The medical examiner put it between eight and eleven on the night before. And as for a struggle, of course there was one. Would have been strange if not, considering how he died. One of the chairs at the table was upended, and a mug of tea had been knocked over, soaking whatever was on it.

SHERLOCK: What _was_ on it?

MACDEE: Books. Maps. Photos. All about wildlife. I remember an open notebook that looked like he'd been recording what rare birds he'd spotted, and where and when. Apart from that, the place was very sparsely furnished. A table, two chairs, the bed, the stove, bookshelves. The harpoons in their rack. That was all. Very little kitchen equipment. Some supplies of food, tins and the like. A heavy-duty toolbox. Almost no personal effects, apart from a few changes of clothes - all solid outdoor wear -, and some basic toiletries. He must have lived like a hermit.

JOHN: No phone?

MACDEE: That's right, his phone was gone.

SHERLOCK: His wallet?

MACDEE: In the pocket of his jacket.

 _They fall silent, John and MacDee nursing their drinks, all three of them lost in thought._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment):_ Right. Tell us about Neligan.

MACDEE: No, you tell me what we missed.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ As far as I can tell without having seen the place myself, nothing much. So far. Now, Neligan -

MACDEE: - Neligan was picked up that same evening, at dusk, wandering on the heath, hypothermic, disoriented, wet through and through. He was taken directly back to his hospital, and the next morning, they - the doctor on duty, more precisely - phoned us to say that Neligan had been babbling about killing a man with a harpoon. We sent two of our local men over to confirm it, and by noon, we were sure we had our killer, and declared the case closed.

SHERLOCK: It's not going to go to court?

MACDEE: I don't think so. No point. _(A little defensively)_ You know, that guy brutally raped three little girls, and strangled one of them in the process, but the court found that he wasn't criminally liable for any of it. So there's no way he's going to be held responsible for this, either. He'll spend the rest of his life behind bars anyway. It'll be in his file, of course, and it will weigh against him if they ever consider him for a release on licence. _(He takes a long draught, then puts his glass down again with finality.)_ But that's all that matters, isn't it, that he doesn't get out again, and that he doesn't kill again.

SHERLOCK: Where exactly was he found?

MACDEE: A few miles east of Balmoral Castle, on the northern side of the road. On Balmoral land, as a matter of fact. It was the security people from the royal residence who picked him up, and took him back to Ben Avon.

 _Sherlock raises his eyebrows. MacDee clears his throat a little nervously._

MACDEE: I know, that looks a bit odd. But out there in the country - well, I'm not going to speak ill of the Grampian Police, obviously, but - let me just say he was in competent hands. So we weren't going to kick up a row about the limits of their jurisdiction when they were in fact doing our job for us.

JOHN _(to MacDee):_ Hang on – I've never been here before. So Ben Avon Hospital is actually _in_ the National Park?

MACDEE: Yes, on the eastern edge of it. Just outside the town of Ballater. It was named for the view. _(He pushes some of the used plates out of the way, then places his drink directly in front of him.)_ This is Ballater. About eight miles due west, you have the village of Crathie, and Balmoral Castle. Here. _(He picks up the fateful empty strawberry jam pot and places it a few inches to the left of his beer.)_ And then another ten miles further west, there's the village of Braemar. _(He marks it with the butter dish.)_ All linked by the A93, like pearls on a string. Glen Quoich, with Bell's hut, is a little beyond Braemar, to the west and north of it. That's where the roads end and the wilderness really begins.

 _John nods._

SHERLOCK: Is he a local man? Neligan, I mean?

MACDEE: No, not at all. He's from Glasgow, originally. The only reason he ended up here is that Ben Avon's currently the only facility in Scotland for high-security psychiatric patients.

JOHN: What's his condition? I mean, why wasn't he considered responsible for his crimes?

MACDEE: He's an idiot. Literally. I think his IQ clocked in at barely over sixty when they tested him, after those rapes. _(John raises his eyebrows.)_ Speaks for itself, doesn't it?

SHERLOCK: And his confession?

MACDEE: Signed, sealed and delivered. Perfectly clear. _(He drinks.)_ Well, the doctor's, anyway.

JOHN: What do you mean, the doctor's?

MACDEE: When our people got there, to Ben Avon, I mean, Neligan was too far out of it to string two coherent words together. Not surprising, really, seeing how he has trouble with that most of the time anyway. Maybe it was the shock of the crime catching up with him, or the meds muddling him up, I don't know. We took the doctor's statement, though, the one Neligan had told the whole story on the night before. And that was clear enough. He told the doc he'd been wandering in the hills, looking for shelter for the night, happened on a hut, went in. He said there was a man in there, so he got scared, and grabbed what he called a "spear" from the wall, and - well.

 _MacDee takes another sip of his beer._

SHERLOCK _(with a sardonic grin):_ Oh, don't stop when it gets interesting.

MACDEE _(good-naturedly):_ Still always hankering after the goriest bits, are you? _(Serious again)_ No, I mean we know what happened then, don't we?

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ At least we can be fairly sure what _didn't_ happen.

MACDEE: Meaning?

SHERLOCK _(pointedly):_ Meaning that unless Neligan managed to suddenly grow two extra pairs of arms and hands in order to commit that crime, I don't believe for a moment that there is any truth in that "confession" of his.

MACDEE _(after a moment of silence, soberly):_ Right. I don't get it. Why not?

SHERLOCK: Because in my reconstruction of the crime, I -

MACDEE _(stumped):_ Your _reconstruction?_

JOHN _(quickly):_ With a pig. He used a pig.

MACDEE _(deeply unsettled):_ You _what?_

SHERLOCK _(matter-of-factly):_ Yes. And even with the dead one, it took my assistant three attempts to transfix it completely, which means -

MACDEE _(turning to John, looking revolted):_ D'you mean _you_ \- ?

JOHN _(pulling a face):_ God, no. Someone called Igor.

SHERLOCK _(crossing his arms, rather peeved):_ Are you listening, MacDee?

 _MacDee shakes his head as if to clear it._

MACDEE: Right, sorry. Just let me get rid of those mental images.

SHERLOCK _(with a smirk):_ No, do stick with them for a moment. They're important. _(Serious again)_ As I said, three attempts to transfix a _dead_ pig. And when we tried it with a live one, we didn't manage it at all, although I was doing my best to immobilise it. We actually gave up before I got too badly bitten, or impaled by mistake. _(MacDee grimaces.)_ It put up a very respectable fight when it sensed what was going to happen. I can show you the bruises on my shins, if you like. They're impressive. So, we put it out of its misery in a more efficient way, and I went back home with -

JOHN _(drily):_ \- with the harpoon still in his hand, and covered with blood from head to toe. On the tube. ( _MacDee gapes.)_ Sort of.

SHERLOCK _(rolling his eyes at John):_ \- with the certain knowledge that no single man could have pinned a live and conscious victim like Joseph Bell to a wooden wall with a single thrust of a manually operated harpoon. Even taking into account the anatomic differences between a human ribcage and a porcine one – not as many as one would think, by the way – the act itself would require a very unusual amount of physical strength to start with, and -

MACDEE: But Neligan said he got scared. _(Looking at John for support)_ Adrenaline can work wonders that way, can't it?

SHERLOCK: But no amount of adrenaline in the body of the murderer could have persuaded the victim to stand still and let himself be skewered on that thing without resistance. You need to put a lot force behind a thrust like that, which means you need to stand well back to take a swing. It would be absolutely impossible to keep a hold on your victim with your other hand at the same time. So, unless you prove to me beyond all reasonable doubt that Joseph Bell had a death wish and was content to just let it happen, I think we have to assume that the murderer had at least one accomplice who held the victim in place while the harpoon went through him. Two, more likely, since he was held up against a wall. One on either side.

 _MacDee puffs up his cheeks and lets out a long breath. Then he runs his hand through his hair, looking unhappy._

MACDEE: You mean that Neligan had accomplices, and we let those slip through our fingers?

SHERLOCK: I mean I'm convinced that Bell was killed by at least two men. Three, more likely. As for who -

MACDEE: But how? There was no hint that anyone helped Neligan escape from hospital. He had virtually no contacts outside, never got any visitors, nothing. And who would gang up with a child abuser on the run just like that, and go harpooning innocent conservationists with him?

SHERLOCK _(in a mock-appreciative tone):_ Very good questions, MacDee. I'm glad you're beginning to ask them at last.

MACDEE _(almost desperately):_ But he confessed! He told his doctor he'd killed Bell. Would anyone with an IQ of no more than sixty be able to keep it secret that he didn't do it alone?

SHERLOCK: Depends on what exactly he said, and how he said it. _(Raising a reproving eyebrow at MacDee)_ But when even the investigating officer himself doesn't deem it necessary to actually talk to the perpetrator, and form his own opinion of his credibility -

MACDEE _(irritated):_ Yeah, I know. That wasn't ideal. But that day was a Saturday, too, you know, Cat was busy as a bee at the shop, Ewan and Moira were in bed with the flu, whining and howling all the time, and our offices on Queen Street were under siege from reporters clamouring for an update. If Cat's mum hadn't stepped in, I wouldn't even have made it to that press conference in time.

 _There is a tense silence. MacDee, still looking harassed even at the memory, turns his glass in his hand a few times, then takes another sip of his drink and puts it back down on the table._

MACDEE _(soberly):_ But, yeah. You do have a point. Lots of points, actually. _(He looks from Sherlock to John and back again. A little helplessly)_ So what now?

SHERLOCK: Now we clear this up, of course _. (Sarcastically)_ Can't let your soaring career in the Grampian Police be blemished by an ugly miscarriage of justice, now, can we?

 _MacDee gives Sherlock a very hurt look, then sighs in resignation._

MACDEE _(to John):_ And I'll even end up thanking him, won't I?

JOHN _(sympathetically):_ Very likely so, yes.

SHERLOCK _(to MacDee):_ So, can I take a look at the file?

MACDEE _(readily):_ Yeah, sure. I'll get it for you first thing in the morning. _(Sherlock gives John a very smug look.)_ No, wait. Tomorrow, Cat teaches Sunday school after church, so I'll be minding the kids. But you'll have it by noon, I promise.

 _Sherlock looks rather dissatisfied for a moment, but then seems to dismiss the delay._

SHERLOCK: And I'd also like to talk to Alan Gilroy, if you can put me in touch with him.

MACDEE _(regretfully):_ Oh, you're out of luck there. I tried to reach him a couple of days ago about some signature that was still missing, and they told me at the Evening Express that he'd just left for Brazil.

 _Both Sherlock and John look equally taken aback at this._

JOHN: Brazil?

MACDEE _(with a shrug):_ Yeah, on work. He got commissioned to write a series on illegal logging of rainforests, or something like that. By some big paper, The Guardian I think. He'll be gone for a whole month. _(Sympathetically)_ Can't blame him for grabbing the opportunity to take his mind off things, poor devil. He was completely shell-shocked by his friend's death, really badly shaken.

SHERLOCK: Then, John, I think while the Macdonalds go about hallowing the Sabbath tomorrow, our time would be best employed in a little excursion to Ben Avon Hospital. _(To MacDee)_ Can you get us in there to talk to Neligan, d'you think?

MACDEE: I think I can. Not in an official capacity, of course, not as long as the investigation stays formally concluded. But just as ordinary visitors, it should be fine. _(Wryly)_ He's on his best way to becoming your client, isn't he, so they can't have anything against you talking to him. I'll give them a call and announce you. That'll save you a lot of explaining.

 _Sherlock nods, a little absently._

JOHN _(to MacDee):_ Thank you. _(He glances at his watch, then at his friend.)_ Right, I think -

SHERLOCK _(resurfacing from his little reverie, frowning):_ MacDee - how come you were in charge of that investigation at all?

MACDEE: You mean, why someone as junior as me? _(He shrugs again.)_ Coincidence. Campbell, my DI, was on holiday in Thailand. And the only other DI from our department had just gone up to Elgin to look into an armed robbery _. (With a smile)_ Cat was right, there really aren't that many of us. So hereabouts even humble sergeants get to handle murder cases, from time to time _. (A blush rises up his face.)_ But I can tell you, I was feeling bloody jittery. At that press conference, my hands were shaking so badly I wanted to sit on them. And I was reporting a success, not a failure. But still, I mean, with a victim like Professor Bell -

JOHN: _Professor_ Bell?

MACDEE: Aye. Didn't I say? He was only an amateur naturalist, in his free time. His real job was in research, too, but down where you are, in London. Imperial College.

JOHN: Maritime history?

MACDEE: No, that was a hobby, too. Chemistry. He was a world class toxicologist.

 _He finishes his beer in one long draught, then puts down his glass. Across the table, John sits frozen into stillness, his eyes wide. Then, abruptly, he turns towards Sherlock. Their eyes meet, but before either of them can say anything, the door of the room opens, and Catriona comes walking in._

CAT _(cheerfully):_ Sorry, that took much longer than usual. _(She walks up to the table, and puts an arm around her husband's shoulders.)_ So much excitement _. (Glancing over the table)_ I see you've made yourselves properly at home, good _. (To Sherlock)_ But I reckon I've missed the best bit now, haven't I? Why you're here, I mean?

 _A tense silence follows her words. MacDee's eyes are still on John, puzzled by the doctor's strange reaction to the mentioning of Joseph Bell's day job; John's eyes are on Sherlock, demanding explanations; and Sherlock, staring back at his friend with equal intensity, is just as fiercely refusing to give them._

CAT _(with a laugh):_ Oh, I see. State secrets. Well, never mind.

 _She detaches herself from her husband, leans across the table and starts collecting the used plates and glasses. MacDee jumps back to life and stands up, relieved at having something to do. John clears his throat, then he empties his glass, too, puts it back down and rises to his feet._

JOHN: Yes, I suppose we've – _(with a glance at Sherlock, who still hasn't moved)_ \- we've got as far here as we can get right now.

SHERLOCK _(distractedly):_ I agree, yes.

 _He squares his shoulders and gets up, too, though rather slowly._

JOHN: Well. _(To MacDee and Cat, gesturing at the table)_ Thanks for everything. You've been great.

MACDEE _(waving it away, modestly):_ No trouble. Right, shall I call you a cab? _(To Sherlock)_ Where are you staying?

SHERLOCK: Where would you recommend?

 _MacDee and his wife exchange a surprised look._

MACDEE: Are you saying that you haven't booked ahead?

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Have we?

JOHN _(in a rather cool tone):_ I wasn't the one who planned this trip, you know.

CAT _(worried):_ Oh dear.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MACDEE _(with a sigh):_ North derby. The Dons against Inverness CT. The city's packed with supporters from Inverness and further north. _(He shakes his head.)_ Everywhere will be booked out.

JOHN: Oh.

 _He glances at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugs. There is a silence._

MACDEE _(to his wife, doubtfully):_ Doesn't Mrs Henderson at number eight do Bed and Breakfast?

CAT: Oh, no way. She told me she's been booked out for this weekend since before Christmas. And all the others will be the same. Well - _(exchanging a quick look with her husband)_ \- the larger sofa pulls out and sleeps two…

JOHN _(raising his hands in a gesture of polite refusal):_ Oh, please, don't -

SHERLOCK _(simultaneously):_ Yes, that would do.

 _There is another silence._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ Look, we really can't -

MACDEE _(cordially):_ Oh, sure you can. Seriously, camping in the backyard isn't an option in March, is it? Don't worry, you're welcome. _(With a note of mischief in his voice)_ And Ewan will be delighted to find you still here when he comes bouncing down the stairs at six in the morning.

CAT _(in a business-like tone, before anyone can disagree):_ Right then, that's decided. Now, the kitchen's a mess, and it's getting a bit late -

 _She picks up a stack of used plates and cutlery._

MACDEE _(to his wife):_ I'll give you a hand.

* * *

 ** _The Macdonalds' kitchen,_** _a moment later. Cat and MacDee enter it one after another, both carrying used dishes. MacDee pushes the door closed behind him with this elbow. Cat deposits her load in the kitchen sink, lets out a long breath, and then turns back to her husband._

CAT _(in a low voice, a little anxiously):_ Now was I rude, or was I right?

MACDEE _(with a shrug):_ Greg says no, but I think he's the only one.

 _The two of them look at each other for a moment, both at a loss._

CAT: Would it have been better to offer one of them the kitchen floor?

MACDEE: We do have two spare duvets though, don't we?

CAT: Yeah, sure.

MACDEE _(with decision):_ Then they can sort out the rest themselves. I mean, they _could_ have called ahead. _(In a tone of exasperated affection)_ Strawberry jam my arse, but without us, he'd be sleeping under a bridge.

 _Cat smiles._

* * *

 ** _The Macdonalds' living room_** _. Night time. Darkness. On the sofa-bed, John has rolled himself in his blanket, conscientiously not taking up more than half of the narrow space, and lies with his eyes closed, his head pillowed on his arm. The other half of the bed is unoccupied, the duvet neatly folded, clearly unused as yet. John turns over in his sleep, then jerks back as if worried that he's about to bump into his fellow sleeper, and opens his eyes. He turns his head to look, sees that there is in fact nobody there, and sits up, blinking. Sherlock, seen in profile by John, is leaning against the back of one of the armchairs with his arms crossed. He is still fully dressed, and he is looking out of the window into the dark and quiet little garden behind the house, brooding._

JOHN _(in a quiet voice):_ Sherlock? Don't tell anyone I ever said this, but come to bed now.

 _Sherlock doesn't move._

JOHN _(sensibly):_ There's no point, is there, in racking your brains over this, until we get to talk to Neligan, and see the file.

 _Sherlock shrugs._

JOHN: You know, I can see now that this case is threatening to eat you alive. Don't let it.

SHERLOCK _(in a flat tone, talking to the window):_ I appreciate your concern, John, but -

JOHN: No, you don't.

SHERLOCK _(turning sharply to face his friend, eyebrows drawn together):_ What?

 _John pulls up his legs and props his elbows on his knees._

JOHN: You don't appreciate my concern, Sherlock. You hate it. Or why else did you go to such extraordinary lengths to hide from me that there's a personal factor in this case for you? But now that I've solved mine, I -

SHERLOCK: Solved what?

JOHN: Solved _my_ case. _(Pointedly)_ The case of my lately very oddly behaving flatmate.

SHERLOCK _(with a hint of a sneer):_ I'm not sure that's grammar, John.

JOHN _(unfazed):_ And I'm quite sure it isn't blog material anyway, so never mind my grammar right now.

 _There is a silence. The two friends look at each other in the darkness._

SHERLOCK _(a little wearily):_ Alright, tell me. About your "oddly behaving" flatmate.

JOHN: Right. It – _(Now that he is the one who has to explain himself, he seems at a bit of a loss how to continue.)_ It started, I suppose, with Mrs Hudson catching you smoking out of your bedroom window, couple of weeks ago. Precisely two weeks ago, as a matter of fact.

SHERLOCK _(petulantly):_ She didn't _catch_ me. She simply stepped out into her backyard at the wrong moment.

JOHN: Call it what you like. But you blushed like a schoolboy when she told you she'd seen it, so you didn't exactly want to parade the fact that you'd started again. But there had to be a reason, obviously.

SHERLOCK _(stiffly):_ Go on. What else?

JOHN: Then you lied to Henry Knight when he asked you to come to Dartmoor, and you said you couldn't, because you had a case. While you'd actually spent three whole days on the sofa at that point, not even moving, except for that one little trip to the abattoir.

SHERLOCK: I didn't lie.

JOHN: Alright, not technically. I know that now. You did have a case. This one. You just needed to make up your mind which one to pursue first, and Henry's won. Why, I wonder? Because Henry and his gigantic hound sounded so much more exciting, or because you were secretly grateful not to have to touch this one just yet? _(Sherlock draws in a deep breath through his nose, his brow deeply furrowed in another disapproving frown, but John continues doggedly.)_ Or why else did you lie to _me_ that morning, too? When you put on that very funny 'Sherlock is bored' show for me and Mrs. Hudson, while all you really needed was a distraction from what was really on your mind? _(Sherlock remains stubbornly silent.)_ And lastly, I admit I found it very odd that you'd pay five thousand pounds - five _thousand_ pounds - just to test a theory for an _art pour l'art_ case. Don't you think that's taking your commitment to your work a little too far?

SHERLOCK _(sharply):_ Who told you?

JOHN: Nobody did. But I can put two and two together. You've been very careful to keep this little fact out of the whole affair, but I think I can make a good guess at who exactly Joseph Bell was. And what he was to _you_.

 _Again, they look at each other in silence for a moment. Then Sherlock narrows his eyes._

SHERLOCK _(waspishly):_ Oh, good. If you're so confident that you've worked it out anyway, then you can stop bugging me right now.

 _And before John can reply, he walks over to the sofa-bed, grabs the folded duvet with one hand and the pillow with the other, and leaves the room for the kitchen, banging the door shut behind him._

 _John sighs._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Aberdeen station,**_ _on the next morning. On the concourse, under its impressive vaulted iron-and-glass roof, Sherlock and John are standing at the counter of a car rental firm. A pretty peroxide blonde girl in the company's uniform is filling out a form, copying data from a driving licence. Sherlock's eyes dart all over the place; John's are fixed on the girl's face. When she is done, she pushes the form across to Sherlock for his signature. Then she receives it back and, with a smile, hands him the licence and a car key._

CAR RENTAL GIRL _(in a charming Scottish accent):_ Thank you, Mr Macdonald. _(Pointing)_ Now, if you take the side exit over there, you'll find the car directly on your left. There are two Audi TTs parked there, yours is the black one. Have a good trip! And if you need anything, give us a shout.

 _Sherlock nods thank you to her and pockets the driving licence and the key. Then he and John turn – John a little regretfully - and start walking across the concourse to the exit._

JOHN _(in a low voice):_ Now was that really necessary, Mr Macdonald?

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, he'll have it back before he misses it. _(He looks around as if to check no one's listening. In a more serious tone)_ And I'm really not keen on advertising our presence here too openly.

JOHN: So that's why we can't just book a hotel room either, like ordinary people do? Jesus, you're being complicated. _(He gestures around the busy station.)_ Look, nobody cares. It's not like you're wearing the hat, is it?

 _At this moment, two teenage girls come walking across the concourse towards John and Sherlock, chatting. When one of girls sees the two men, she grabs her friend's arm, and whispers hectically into her ear. The other girl stops dead in her tracks and stares at Sherlock, round-eyed. Then they both start giggling, pressing their hands to their lips to hide their excitement. Sherlock gives John a pointed look, then sweeps past the girls, ignoring them ostentatiously. John sighs._

JOHN _(catching up):_ But what if she hadn't bought it _? (He jerks his head back towards the car rental counter.)_ MacDee and you aren't exactly -

SHERLOCK: Nobody looks like themselves on their driving licence.

JOHN: At least it was you who paid the bill and the deposit. I mean, an Audi TT? Seriously?

SHERLOCK: Yes, seriously _. (With a sidelong glance at his friend)_ I'll need to look the part, you know.

JOHN: What, the part of a Detective Inspector with four kids to support and a mortgage to pay? In that car, the only kind of DI you'll look like is a corrupt one.

 _Sherlock gives John a wry smile - but one with very little humour in it indeed._

* * *

 _ **The Dee River valley, an hour or so later.**_ _A sleek, jet-black Audi TT is moving down the road through the broad, lush green vale. The little sports car looks ridiculously out of place in these rural surroundings. Fields border the road, and in the distance, woods cover the lower slopes of the hills. Sherlock is behind the wheel, while John, in the passenger seat, alternates between looking out of the window and checking their progress on a map on his phone._

JOHN _(tapping impatiently on the screen):_ This app is crap for anything outside cities. All it does is eat my battery. But it can't be far now. We're almost in Ballater.

 _A moment later, a smaller road branches off to the right, signposted "Ben Avon Psychiatric Hospital". Sherlock drives straight past it._

JOHN _(turning in his seat to look back):_ Sherlock, wait, I think that was it.

SHERLOCK _(driving on):_ We're not going to Ben Avon, John.

JOHN _(astonished):_ What? MacDee gets us an interview with the killer -

SHERLOCK: The _supposed_ killer.

JOHN: - but now we've suddenly got better things to do?

SHERLOCK: We were never going to go there, John _. (He quickly glances across at his friend, then focusses on the road again.)_ Neligan won't be able to tell us anything new.

JOHN _(leaning back with a sigh):_ So where _are_ we going now?

SHERLOCK: Into the hills. An hour or two in that hut will tell us all we need to know.

JOHN: Do you even know where exactly it is?

SHERLOCK: Only very vaguely. _(He flashes John a brief grin.)_ But we'll find someone to show us.

 _John shakes his head._

* * *

 _ **Another twenty miles down the road,**_ _the river valley has narrowed considerably. The well-ordered fields have given way to pine woods. In the distance, but not so far away any more, rise the hills of the National Park - covered with grass and patches of heather on the lower slopes, but with bare rocky summits. The landscape looks as if it was painted by an artist whose palette consisted entirely of green, purple, gold and grey._

 _The road takes a sharp turn south, and a minute or two later, Sherlock and John enter the village of Braemar, in the heart of the Park. In the village centre, they come to a large brand-new building, entirely constructed of wood and glass, with a car-park in front of it. A large sign above its automatic doors proclaims it to be the Cairngorms National Park Visitor Centre. Its modern architecture is in stark contrast with the modest, grey surrounding buildings - a village shop plus post office to the right, closed, and to the left, a small police station, with a police Land Rover parked in front of it._

 _Sherlock pulls over, and their car comes to a halt in one of the slots in the car-park. John peers out through the windscreen. In the windows to the left and right of the doors of the Visitor Centre, there is a little exhibition of the flora and fauna of the region. Three flags on their flagpoles in front of the entrance - the Scottish one, white St. Andrew's cross on blue; the one of the European Union, a circle of golden stars on blue; and one with the purple National Park logo on it - flutter lazily in an occasional gust of wind. The doors slide open, and a young couple in hikers' outfits – brightly coloured gore-tex jackets, sturdy boots, map in hand – exits the building._

JOHN: Looks like this place is open at least.

 _Sherlock and John get out of the car. John immediately walks towards the doors of the Visitor Centre._

SHERLOCK: No, John. This way.

 _He jerks his head towards the police station on the left._

JOHN _(stopping in his tracks):_ What? I'm not going "into the hills", as you call it, without a proper map.

SHERLOCK: Won't be necessary. C'mon.

 _He starts walking towards the police station. After a moment of hesitation, John follows._

JOHN _(catching up):_ Don't tell me you've got an old friend here, too.

 _Sherlock gives John a mischievous grin over his shoulder._

SHERLOCK: Not yet. _(Striding on)_ By the way, how much do you know about whaling?

JOHN: Nothing whatsoever.

SHERLOCK: Good. _(With a smile)_ Don't let it show.

* * *

 _ **The interior of the Braemar Police Station.**_ _It consists of only one small room, with two desks placed vis-à-vis, and a few chairs for visitors. It is decorated in the way you would expect in a small rural station - ten-year-old posters with security advice and helpline numbers on the walls, next to notice boards with duty roster lists and all other sorts of boring documents, a couple of miserable-looking potted plants with dusty leaves on the window sills, and the sort of technical equipment that belongs in a museum rather than in a modern law enforcement institution. At one of the cluttered desks, an elderly, rather thickset man in the uniform of a constable in the Grampian Police is installed in front of his computer. He has a mug of coffee and a thermos flask in front of him and is tucking into something from the local bakery that is so deeply covered in icing sugar that the front of his shirt is liberally dusted over with it. Over his shoulder, we can see that he is reading a website with sports news. The headline is "Inverness CT flattened 4-1 by Aberdeen". He is clicking his way through a slideshow of pictures from the match, chuckling contentedly now and again, when there is a knock on the door, and it is thrown open with a flourish. Sherlock comes striding into the room, John behind him._

SHERLOCK _(breezily):_ Good morning, Constable. We're sorry we're a bit late. Plane got delayed, on account of the fog. Have you got the keys for us, so we can go straight up?

 _He smiles expectantly at the policeman, but the constable sits dumbstruck, clearly at a complete loss who his visitors are and what they might want from him. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of time before he finds his voice._

CONSTABLE _(in an very strong Scottish burr):_ 'Scuse me? Who are ye, and what're ye talkin' about?

 _The smile rapidly fades from Sherlock's face, and he replaces it with an irritated frown. Then, as if remembering his manners, he holds out his hand._

SHERLOCK: William Baxter, from Baxter, Coulson and Cox Solicitors in London. My secretary made an appointment.

CONSTABLE _(shaking his head in bewilderment):_ Not with me. _(He starts leafing through a calendar book on his desk, muttering to himself.)_ Maybe Rob… _(He looks up again, still at a loss.)_ What'd ye say ye're here for?

 _Sherlock, uninvited, takes a visitor's chair and gestures to John to sit down next to him. He leans back and crosses his legs._

SHERLOCK _(crisply):_ I'm the executor of the late Professor Bell's will. He made considerable testamentary gifts to several scientific and cultural institutions, among them the National Maritime Museum. He left them his entire collection of historic whaling equipment, documents and literature on the subject, which according to his will is all to be found at his holiday home here in Scotland. We're here to take care of it. _(He half-turns to John.)_ This is Doctor Hamish Wilkinson, curator of the Whaling and Sealing collection at Greenwich.

 _The constable glances across at John, who nods politely._

SHERLOCK _(to the constable):_ I understood that the keys to Professor Bell's hut are in your keeping. But it's not necessary for you to accompany us, of course. If you'll just point us the right way, we can be back by - _(he glances at his watch)_ – three or four this afternoon.

CONSTABLE: You mean you want to go up to his hut right now?

 _He is making an audible effort to sound a little less provincial now._

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course.

CONSTABLE _(in a tone of disbelief):_ On a Sunday?

SHERLOCK: Yes, well, we're both busy men. Got to be back in town by tonight.

CONSTABLE: And you want to take all that stuff with you?

SHERLOCK: Oh, no. Doctor Wilkinson here will simply compile a list of objects that are of interest to his museum. I'm here to see that the legal niceties are observed. We'll send someone later to pick it all up, once the distribution of the estate is properly settled.

CONSTABLE: Right. _(He regards his unexpected visitors for a moment, his brows knotted, the very picture of indecision.)_ I'm not sure -

SHERLOCK _(jovially):_ Oh, please don't apologise. I'm certain the mistake was somewhere at our end. _(In an enterprising tone)_ But we're here now, aren't we? So if you don't mind -

 _He makes a move as if to get up, but the constable is actually the first on his feet._

CONSTABLE: Alright. I'll get you the keys.

SHERLOCK: Thank you, Constable - ?

CONSTABLE: McGregor.

 _He goes to fetch the keys from a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. Sherlock and John exchange a look. Under the surface of his polite mask, Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself shamelessly. John raises his eyebrows._

McGREGOR _(returning):_ So, you know where to go?

SHERLOCK: Not exactly, to be honest.

 _McGregor takes a Landranger map from a drawer and unfolds it on the desk._

McGREGOR: Right. Pass through the village, then go on for another mile or so. _(Pointing with a thick finger)_ Here, at the bridge across the Dee, a single-track road branches off to your right, signposted Glen Quoich. Follow that one for about a mile and a half, til it forks. Here. _(He traces the journey with his finger.)_ Take the right hand branch, cross the ford of the Quoich Water, and continue uphill til -

SHERLOCK _(pulling a face at the prospect):_ Cross the ford?

McGREGOR _(matter-of-factly):_ Aye. It's a dirt road, from the Y junction onwards. I hope your car's up to it?

 _Sherlock gives John a look of great consternation. John hurries to return it. McGregor, seeing it, steps up to the window of his office and looks out._

McGREGOR: Is it the Audi over there? Good heavens. _(He chuckles.)_ They'll be towing you back here, if you even make it as far as the ford. _(With a look of pity at his visitors)_ You need a four by four to get anywhere near that hut, unless you want to walk all the way.

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ What do we do now?

SHERLOCK _(frustrated):_ We'll never make it to the airport in time if we go back to Aberdeen for an exchange now. _(To the constable, with an expression very near despair)_ There's no car rental here in Braemar, is there?

 _McGregor shakes his head regretfully. Then he squares his shoulders._

McGREGOR _(generously):_ You know what? I'll take you there.

* * *

 _ **A moment later,**_ _they're outside the small police station. McGregor, now in a rainproof high-vis jacket over his uniform, conscientiously locks the door while Sherlock and John stand waiting for him by his sturdy all-terrain police vehicle._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ You know, for someone who introduced himself to me as hating to be seen in a police car, you're making quite a habit of it lately.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, yeah. Free, fast, and good company. I'm starting to see the attraction.

 _McGregor joins them, and they all get in, McGregor behind the wheel, Sherlock and John in the back. McGregor places his two-way radio and his peaked cap on the dashboard, then starts the engine, carefully backs out into the street and heads down the road towards the far end of the village._

McGREGOR _(looking at John through the rear view mirror):_ So, you really came all the way from London just to look at the late Professor's whaling stuff?

JOHN _(rather unconvincingly):_ Erm, yes. It's - it's not just "whaling stuff", you know, it's - it's very valuable.

SHERLOCK _(to McGregor, with a smile):_ You should have seen Doctor Wilkinson when he heard that Professor Bell owns the original logbook of the SS _Sea Unicorn_ of Dundee. Couldn't wait to get his hands on it.

McGREGOR _(warmly):_ Yeah, Professor Bell, he was a right scholar. Knew all about the local birds and beasts as well. Such an ugly way to go. We did our best to clean up the mess, but you'll still see the traces, I'm afraid.

SHERLOCK _(in a tone of awe):_ So were you there, when he was found?

McGREGOR: 'Course. First on the spot, Rob - Constable Roy, that is - and me. But we took just one look, and called in the CID double quick. Then sat outside with poor Gilroy for close on two hours until they came. That's the guy who found him. _(Sherlock and John nod, all ears. McGregor continues, obviously very happy to have such an appreciative audience.)_ He was white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf, and no surprise. I've seen one or the other ugliness in my life, but rarely something like that. There was blood spattered all over the place, the body, the wall, the floor, like a slaughterhouse. Could barely see the poor Professor's face for all the gore.

JOHN _(entirely forgetting his alias for a moment, indignantly):_ You didn't go in to check whether he was still alive?

McGREGOR _(with a rueful laugh):_ Oh, he was dead alright. Must have been, the moment that thing went through him. Pinned to the wall like a beetle on a card, ribcage ploughed open, face twisted like a lost soul in hell, eyes staring, mouth gaping. I'll never forget the stench, too. _(John gives Sherlock a covert look of concern, but Sherlock is listening with stony composure.)_ Wasn't sorry in the least when the lads from Aberdeen arrived and took over. _(Proudly)_ And they wrapped it up in a day.

 _They're well outside the village of Braemar now. McGregor slows the car down to take a right turn across a bridge, into a much narrower lane. The road is beginning to climb uphill._

SHERLOCK _(falling back into his role, feelingly):_ The whole county must have heaved a sigh of relief when they caught that bastard.

McGREGOR: Hmm. Not that they knew. I mean – _(He clears his throat a little nervously.)_ We'd kept that under wraps. That Neligan had done a bunk, I mean.

JOHN _(surprised):_ You mean you didn't warn the public that he was out and about?

McGREGOR: No, we didn't. Well – _(He clears his throat again.)_ You've got to understand. Ben Avon's been under a lot of pressure lately. There've been incidents. Complaints. Even a death in custody, last year. They're badly underfunded, and desperately understaffed, but they've still got to take care of the bottom of the barrel from all over Scotland. Small wonder they weren't going to advertise their latest failure. I thought it was a bit rich that they didn't even tell _us_ that he was gone until the day was out. But it seems they'd been turning the whole place upside down first, to make sure he wasn't just hiding in a broom cupboard or something. But the next morning, we were just about to organise a major search operation when we got the call from Gilroy, about Bell. _(To Sherlock)_ If you're of the quibbling sort, like most lawyers that I've met, you might say now that that blood is on those doctors' hands as much as on Neligan's, for not calling us in earlier. But they know that. No point in hitting them over the head with it again and again. Should have seen the doc I talked to, after Neligan was brought back. She looked pretty much like she could do with some of those tranquillisers herself, poor lass.

SHERLOCK _(in a tone of deep admiration):_ So it was _you_ who arrested the killer?

McGREGOR _(modestly):_ Oh, no, no, too much honour. But Rob and I went to take his statement, next morning.

SHERLOCK _(with a veritable shudder):_ You actually heard him confess to the crime?

McGREGOR: No, we ended up just taking the doctor's statement. When we got there, Neligan was just sitting there glassy-eyed, staring down at the table in front of him, muttering about TV and cigarettes. No sense to be got out of him.

JOHN: TV and cigarettes?

McGREGOR: Aye. He kept asking could he watch telly now, and could he smoke. Like a broken record.

 _He shakes his head sadly. Sherlock gives John a significant look. John responds with a frown._

McGREGOR _(with an air of concluding the conversation):_ But anyway, what a cheerful subject to be going on about.

 _The car goes around a narrow bend, and immediately after it, the road forks. McGregor takes the right hand branch, which dips into a wooded area. A moment later, with an almighty rumble, the car goes through the ford of the Quoich Water, spraying water high and wide. Sherlock grimaces in a very expressive manner. John grabs the handle above the window to steady himself. McGregor, seeing their reaction in the rear view mirror, smiles indulgently. After the ford, the road rises again steeply, but McGregor steers the car up the gravelly surface with practised ease. When they come out on top of the rise, a magnificent view opens before them. Straight ahead, across a patchwork of grass and heather, green and purple, the twin peaks of Beinn a Bhuird rise skywards, covered in snow. And to their left, a whole chain of even higher snow-capped summits stretches westward: Beinn a Chaorainn, Beinn Mheadhoin, Ben MacDhui and Braeriach; and behind them, on the horizon, Cairn Gorm itself, majestic in its stark beauty._

JOHN _(muttering in quiet, completely unfeigned admiration):_ Jesus.

 _McGregor halts the car to make sure that his guests get to enjoy the view properly. He gestures at the mountains in the distance._

McGREGOR _(fondly):_ Wouldn't you pick this for your holidays, too, if you were a queen? _(The car starts moving again.)_ Never underestimate the Cairngorms, though. They're beautiful, but they're rough. You get those snow patches on the highest hills and in the deepest dells until August or September. People say that in the Garbh Coire Mor of Braeriach the snow melted just five times in the last century. And on the summit of Cairn Gorm, they recorded the highest wind speed ever in the British Isles. Over a hundred and seventy miles per hour! I can tell you our mountain rescue teams are busy twelve months a year. Skiers in winter, hikers in summer. _(With a chuckle)_ Idiots all year round.

SHERLOCK _(to John, jovially):_ Well, we'd better keep our phones charged and close at hand then, hadn't we?

McGREGOR _(drily):_ If you get a signal up there, which you won't everywhere. But anyway, you won't be going high enough to run into real trouble, I reckon. Half an hour's walk from the end of the road, that's all.

 _The road takes them across a moorland plateau now, straight towards the mountains ahead. Then it dips again slightly into another wooded ravine, and the car goes through another ford, though a smaller and shallower one this time._

McGREGOR _(chuckling):_ My neighbour runs the local garage. Makes a fortune out of silly tourists underestimating the road conditions, and the weather.

SHERLOCK _(bashfully):_ I know we couldn't possibly offer anything to you personally in return for your kindness, Constable. But I'll be happy to donate the equivalent of the towing expenses _and_ the rental firm's extra cleaning charge to a charity of your choice.

McGREGOR _(with a laugh):_ Oh, fair enough. Right. Give it to the National Park. _(Warmly)_ We simple folks can't splash out, of course, like the likes of MacMillan, but that doesn't mean we don't care.

SHERLOCK _(in his best conversational tone):_ Are you a local man, Constable?

McGREGOR _(proudly):_ I should say so. Born and bred just down the road from here, in Crathie, right on Her Majesty's doorstep. My old man was in the force, too, of course, but my mam was in service at Balmoral Castle. Used to take me there with her all the time. Very pretty place.

SHERLOCK: Yes, we drove past.

McGREGOR: Next time you're here, take a day off the legal stuff and go visit! _(He shakes his head, amused.)_ You city people. Always in a hurry.

SHERLOCK: Is it open to the public then?

McGREGOR: Oh, aye. When Her Majesty isn't in residence, like now – no problem.

 _A moment later, still in the pine forest, the road ends in a small gravelled turning area, neatly fenced in. At the far end, a footpath disappears into the wood, signposted as a hiking route. McGregor stops the car._

McGREGOR: Right, here we are. _(He points.)_ See that path? It'll take you straight to Bell's hut. Stay on it, and always keep the burn on your left. Then you can't go wrong. Thirty minutes, or forty if you take your time. So, how long d'you think you'll be?

SHERLOCK _(a little anxiously):_ Well – we're not sure, to be honest. Hard to tell just how much work it'll be. _(With a smile)_ And how long it'll take Doctor Wilkinson to tear himself away from all those treasures again. _(John hurries to respond with a slightly embarrassed grin.)_ Can't we just give you a call?

McGREGOR _(scratching his head):_ I wouldn't rely on that. As I said, hereabouts, you don't get a signal everywhere. Listen, maybe I'd better come -

SHERLOCK _(politely protesting):_ Oh, please, don't bother. We've already made ridiculous demands on your time. _(His eyes fix themselves on the two-way radio that McGregor has put on the dashboard, and they light up instantly. With the air of an enthusiast, very excitedly)_ _That_ one's sure to work up here though, isn't it? Gosh, I haven't got my hands on one of those since the boy scouts. Can't we just give you a shout that way? D'you mind if I - ?

 _He makes a move as if to lean forward to pick up the radio from the dashboard. McGregor grabs it just in time._

McGREGOR _(doubtfully):_ You know how to work them?

SHERLOCK _(confidently):_ Oh, sure. We'll just give you a stat. thirteen request when we're done, alright? What's your code?

McGREGOR _(in a tone of surprise):_ Now you do sound like you know what you're talking about.

SHERLOCK _(with a conspiratorial smile):_ Of course. Used to listen in on police radio all the time, when I was a boy.

 _McGregor chuckles, then hands Sherlock the radio._

McGREGOR: Alright. I'm E twenty-two. You'll be E twenty-three. That's Rob, normally. Keep it switched to channel one, or I won't hear you. _(In a tone of good-natured admonishment)_ And don't even think of making more than a simple callback request, or the lads in the control centre in Aberdeen will ask me very awkward questions.

SHERLOCK _(grinning):_ Promise.

 _He looks like Christmas has come early._


	6. Chapter 6

_**The footpath through the forest**_ _. Sherlock and John come walking along it, side by side, Sherlock with his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking quite at ease, John with his shoulders slightly hunched and a face like a thundercloud. They walk without speaking, the little brook - or burn, as they say in Scotland – to their left murmuring alongside as they follow its course upstream._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ You were _never_ in the boy scouts.

SHERLOCK _(straight-faced):_ Oh really? Why not?

JOHN: Just look at you!

 _Sherlock stops in his tracks and, as instructed, looks down his own person – coat, scarf, dark suit, shiny black leather-soled shoes - and then back at John with a puzzled expression._

SHERLOCK: Yes?

JOHN: You'd have learned how to dress for hiking.

SHERLOCK _(in a dignified tone):_ I'm always dressed for anything.

JOHN: Says the man who went harpooning a pig in a white shirt.

SHERLOCK _(pointedly):_ "Fleur de sel".

JOHN: Sell what?

SHERLOCK: That colour is called "fleur de sel", John.

JOHN: Jesus. Last time I looked, salt _was_ white.

 _They continue along the path in tense silence, Sherlock shooting John quick covert looks, genuinely trying but apparently failing to fathom the cause for John's ill humour._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ So that's the reason, is it?

SHERLOCK: The reason for what?

JOHN: For your trademark wardrobe monotony. And I thought it was just because you couldn't be bothered to decide what to put on every morning.

 _Sherlock pulls a face, as if he can't quite believe he's being made to discuss such things. Then he pouts._

SHERLOCK _(miffed):_ I do change the colour of my shirts, you know.

JOHN: Oh, interesting! How do you do that, like a chameleon?

 _They walk on, John looking inordinately amused now, Sherlock scowling._

SHERLOCK _(under his breath, peevishly):_ "Trademark wardrobe monotony".

JOHN _(under his breath, sing-song):_ "Vary". The word is "vary".

SHERLOCK _(a few yards further on):_ Tell you what?

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK _(jabbing his forefinger at John's solid rubber-soled brogues):_ Your shoes may look the part, but they're new. So you'll be the one who comes back downhill limping.

 _John makes a show of inspecting Sherlock's own shoes, black leather once polished to perfection already rather obscured by mud._

JOHN: While _yours_ –

SHERLOCK _(snappishly):_ Don't insult my shoes, John, or I'll insult your jumpers.

JOHN _(squaring his shoulders, with dignity):_ At least they keep me warm.

 _Sherlock snorts, ostentatiously pulls his coat closed around himself, and walks on past his friend. John, rolling his eyes, follows suit._

 _ **A few minutes later,**_ _the path climbs out of the ravine, and broadens into a track across a patch of open moorland. Sherlock is walking along with energetic strides. John follows at a more sober pace, the frown on his face indicating that there is something more serious than his flatmate's impractical wardrobe choices still weighing on his mind. The distance between them lengthens. Sherlock notices it, and halts to wait for his friend to catch up. When he does, John speaks up again._

JOHN: You do this stuff just for the sake of doing it, don't you?

SHERLOCK: What "stuff"?

 _They continue walking together._

JOHN: Taking the piss out of poor unsuspecting country constables. Planes delayed on account of the fog. The logbook of the _Sea Unicorn_ of Dundee. Little boys listening to police radio. Seriously.

SHERLOCK: That last bit was quite accurate, you know. _(Didactically)_ And to the average mind, it's the details that make a story ring true, John.

JOHN _(not amused):_ Yes, well, except that the story isn't funny anymore when McGregor starts wondering just how incompetent the secretaries at Baxter, Coulson and Cox Solicitors in London can really be, and checks back with them whether we're real.

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ In which case he'll find the right name but no photograph among the junior partners on their website, so he'll be none the wiser. And all his remaining questions will have to wait til they're open again tomorrow morning, when we'll be long gone. There's a reason why we're doing this on a Sunday, you know.

JOHN _(grumpily):_ Ah. I thought it was just to annoy the Puritans.

SHERLOCK _(with a brief grin):_ Oh, that too. Seriously, John – the poor unsuspecting constable has proved a treasure trove of information, hasn't he? He's taken us a big step further, and not just geographically.

JOHN: It's just that I object to making people look like idiots for no reason.

SHERLOCK _(innocently):_ Even if they _are_ idiots?

JOHN _(still unsmiling):_ And I'm never happy about these stunts when the risks totally outweigh the profits.

SHERLOCK _(stopping short):_ What do you mean?

JOHN _(impatiently):_ What do I mean? Are you joking? One phone call from MacDee, Sherlock, and there would have been no need at all for that hocus-pocus about testamentary gifts to Greenwich, and renting the wrong car. McGregor would just as happily have taken us up here as ourselves, don't you think? It would have been less fun, maybe, or what _you_ consider to be fun, but –

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ This isn't about fun, John.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ I'd have thought so, too.

SHERLOCK _(gravely):_ No, really. Surely you're aware for whose benefit all that hocus-pocus, as you call it, was intended?

JOHN: For yours, obviously, just so you didn't have to ask MacDee for a favour.

SHERLOCK: Yes, good. And why didn't I want to do that?

JOHN _(snappishly):_ Because you're Sherlock Holmes, who can never just say "please"? _(Muttering under his breath)_ Or "sorry", either.

SHERLOCK _(coldly):_ You know, I almost wish it was only that.

 _He turns, and continues walking. John looks after him, honestly confused, then follows._

JOHN: Alright, I'm missing something here _. (In a grumpy aside)_ As usual. _(Aloud)_ What's MacDee got to do with us putting on that charade for the constable?

SHERLOCK: He's got everything to do with it, John.

 _Now it's John who stops short in his tracks. We can see the cogs turning in his head for a moment, then his eyes go wide._

JOHN: You mean you didn't ask him to get us a lift out here on purpose? Because you don't want him to know we're here? _(His frown deepens.)_ And all that about going to see Neligan at Ben Avon, that was a scam from beginning to end, so he won't start wondering where we've really gone?

SHERLOCK _(wryly):_ Well spotted.

JOHN _(pulling an almost comically puzzled face):_ But _why?_

SHERLOCK _(with a hint of impatience):_ Because, John, for all we know, MacDee has his own reasons for taking an interest in whether this case gets cleared up or not. Except they're not the same as ours.

JOHN _(astonished):_ You mean he _doesn't_ want it cleared up?

SHERLOCK: I'd be surprised if he did.

JOHN: But he's a copper. It's his job.

SHERLOCK: He wouldn't be the first policeman to stray from the path of virtue, you know. They're actually quite good at it, statistically.

JOHN _(realising the implications, aghast): What?_ Sherlock, d'you know what you're saying?

SHERLOCK: Perfectly well, thank you.

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ No. Just no _._ That's - that's impossible. We drink his beer, we joke with his kids, we sleep on his sofa, and now you tell me he's had a hand in a _murder? (His hand wanders through his hair, so deeply disquieted that he can't keep it still.)_ Jesus. _Jesus_.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, I wouldn't go quite as far as that. We'd probably give him too much credit if we assumed that he'd have the nerve to commit a murder he'd be investigating himself on the next day. Although - _(He frowns, as if he thinks it's an idea worth pursuing.)_ If he was _really_ clever, of course that -

JOHN: Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: - would have given him the perfect opportunity to -

JOHN _(sternly):_ _Sherlock._ Stop it, now _._

 _Sherlock closes his mouth, looking a little disappointed._

JOHN _(firmly):_ That's just the most sick and twisted thing I've ever heard.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Alright, I won't insist. For now. Remind me to check his alibi for that night later. _(He resumes walking, John following automatically.)_ For the time being, we'll assume that he didn't do it, just that he knows who did, and is doing his best now to keep it hushed up.

JOHN _(with an incredulous laugh):_ Oh, _much_ better.

SHERLOCK : But you've got to see why, John. _Do_ you see why?

JOHN: Nope. Absolutely not. And you know what? I think _you're_ seeing things. Seriously. I think you're getting carried away here, Sherlock, more than a little. And I think I know why, and I don't think it's a good sign.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ Oh, charming. I'm getting carried away, right, just because I happened to know the victim? _(Getting louder)_ So of course I must be beside myself with grief and guilt now, mustn't I, and unable to think straight, so I'm hurling baseless accusations left and right, just because someone's got to be responsible? _(Still louder, working himself into quite a rage)_ That's what you're thinking, isn't it? That I'm blinded by sentiment, and willing to believe any enormity of anyone now? _(Acidly)_ You're very quick in drawing your conclusions, John, considering just how little you know about the whole matter!

JOHN _(now getting worked up in his turn, angrily):_ Oh, and that's my fault, is it? Listen, you don't have to tell me what exactly Joseph Bell meant to you when he was alive, if it's such a big secret. But I do care, Sherlock, when I find him messing with your head as a corpse, and that's what he's doing right now _. (He takes a deep breath, then continues in a voice of forced calm.)_ I can understand that it isn't pleasant to think about his death - I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy to end like that, really not - but don't, _don't_ let that -

SHERLOCK ( _stubbornly):_ Who says I -

JOHN: Yeah, I know that you'd like to think that it can't happen to you, letting feelings get in your way. But if you could hear yourself right now, you'd know that's exactly what it is. _(Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John talks over him.)_ Seriously, MacDee of all people, trying to hush up a murder? That man, in cahoots with a gang of killers? It's ridiculous, Sherlock, _ridiculous._ It would be like saying Greg Lestrade's being sponsored by the Mafia, or something!

SHERLOCK _(furiously):_ Ah, but _I'm_ the one here who's blinded by sentiment? Just because MacDee's such a nice guy, and a friend of Lestrade's into the bargain – that alone is solid factual proof of his innocence, is it? But when _I_ say that there's something very fishy going on here, and that all the threads lead back to the officer in charge of the investigation, suddenly _I'm_ -

 _John, who has been listening with mounting impatience, cuts him off, raising his voice almost to a shout._

JOHN: Yes, I say you are!

SHERLOCK _(in a sharp hiss):_ Keep your voice down, for God's sake!

JOHN _(even louder than before, his voice full of scorn):_ Oh, now we've got to worry about being followed, too, do we?

 _With a sudden, enormous shriek, a large brown bird rises out of the heather, only feet away from the path. Sherlock and John both flinch, and fall silent. Then Sherlock gives his friend a reproachful look._

SHERLOCK: No, but you're frightening the birds. _(With a sudden change of tone, quiet and reassuring now)_ We're not being followed, John. I'm absolutely certain that we're not being followed.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ Well, I'm happy to hear it.

SHERLOCK: But as for the rest -

JOHN: Sherlock -

SHERLOCK: What?

JOHN _(also in a very different tone, almost appeasingly):_ Please don't.

SHERLOCK: Please don't what?

JOHN: You - I - You know, I shrugged it off when he told me. But I'm beginning to believe that your brother did have a point when he said, the other day, that he was worried about you.

 _Sherlock stands very still for a moment, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. John grimaces, as if he already regrets saying what he did._

SHERLOCK: My brother. Worried about me. _(With a sneer.)_ Tell me something new, John.

 _He turns away, and walks on without looking back._

JOHN _(calling after him):_ Wild goose chases, he said.

 _Sherlock walks on._

JOHN: Conspiracy theories. Chasing phantasmagoria.

 _Sherlock continues for another couple of yards, then he stops and turns around._

SHERLOCK: Mycroft said that?

JOHN: Yes, he did. _(Catching up, quoting)_ "If you feel," he said, "that in any of your upcoming cases, Sherlock seems to be going down a rather fantastical road again, do try and steer him back onto the rails of his accustomed rationality."

SHERLOCK _(with an exaggerated sigh):_ I keep telling him he really needs to work on not mixing his metaphors quite so atrociously.

JOHN _(not to be distracted):_ I didn't want to believe it at the time, but it seems like sound advice to me right now.

SHERLOCK: _When_ did he say that?

JOHN: The day we got back from Dartmoor. _(Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but John cuts right across him, sounding rather annoyed again.)_ And no, thank you, you can spare me that tirade this time. Interfering busybody. Nosey git. None of his business. _(Wearily)_ I've heard that so many times, Sherlock, I assure you I know it by heart, no need to repeat it. _(Sherlock looks for a moment as if he is about to disagree, then he thinks better of it, and closes his mouth again.)_ And we're really wasting time right now. Come on.

 _They walk on in silence for a few minutes, both looking straight ahead, avoiding each other's eyes. Then, at exactly the same moment, they both speak up again._

JOHN: You know -

SHERLOCK _(simultaneously):_ Can we -

 _They pause, each waiting for the other to continue._

JOHN: Go ahead. Can we what?

SHERLOCK: Go back to square one?

JOHN _(still rather sceptical):_ Alright.

SHERLOCK: Because there _is_ something fishy going on here, John. No, really. I'm talking about facts, John, not figments of an overwrought imagination. Facts that require an explanation. If you have a better one than I have, let me know. I never said I liked mine. But just let me put the case before you. _(John makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand.)_ So. As I said last night, John Neligan can't have killed Bell on his own. He had the motive - fear of recapture - but he didn't have the opportunity. We don't even know that he ever made it as far as Bell's hut at all. It would be no mean feat, would it, to walk all those twenty-five miles across country from Ben Avon to here, particularly for a man with no knowledge of the area and severely limited intelligence. And as for having had help, we know of no one he was in touch with, and no one who would have been likely to join him once he was out. So I think we can safely dismiss the theory that Neligan was the head of a gang of killers, the rest of whom simply escaped notice. With me so far? _(John nods.)_ So if Neligan wasn't among the perpetrators, then why did he confess to the crime?

JOHN _(with a shrug):_ Hard to tell, with a man of his condition. To get attention? Because it made him feel important? Simple minds sometimes work that way.

SHERLOCK: But then, how did he even know that there was a man in a mountain hut somewhere nearby with a harpoon sticking out of his chest, whose murder he could take the credit for? You may say he walked openly into Braemar and heard people talking about it in the village shop or in the pub, but even he would have been clever enough not to risk being seen in broad daylight. So, that leaves us with only two possibilities.

JOHN: You mean that "confession" was a complete fabrication? And the doctors were in on it?

SHERLOCK: That's one possibility, yes.

JOHN: But that makes no sense. According to McGregor, Ben Avon's been taking a lot of flak lately for not coming up to scratch. Why would they add one of their patients breaking out and committing a nasty murder to their current record, if it wasn't true?

SHERLOCK: You excel yourself, John, now that I've managed to steer _you_ back onto the rails of _your_ accustomed rationality. _(Sarcastically)_ To quote a great Englishman. _(John pulls a face. Serious again)_ No, I agree. The doctors had no reason to fake it, so Neligan probably really told them that tale. And that means someone must have put it in his head, and made sure he passed it on.

JOHN: Forced him, you mean? How?

SHERLOCK: Bribed him, more likely. Remember what McGregor said about his own visit to Ben Avon? What Neligan kept muttering about?

JOHN: TV and cigarettes?

SHERLOCK: Exactly. You know, for someone cooped up in an institution like that, with no hope of ever getting out again, small privileges can go a long way towards making life more bearable. That's what they do all the time to get prisoners to cooperate, too. And with someone as dim as Neligan, it really wouldn't take much. _(John lets out a long breath, but he doesn't object. Sherlock glances at him with a secret little smile before he continues.)_ Now, let's look at the rather inglorious role of the Grampian Police in this. A team from the CID in Aberdeen arrives at the crime scene, the SOCOs go through all the usual motions of examining it, while the officer in charge questions the witness. So far, so regular. Then, not twenty-four hours later, without any effort from the police at all, the case miraculously solves itself.

JOHN _(with another shrug):_ They just got lucky?

SHERLOCK: And where would we all be if they didn't, once in a while? But yes, at that time, it could have been put down to luck, no more. But what happens _then_ makes that impossible.

JOHN: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: The officer in charge of the investigation is promoted.

JOHN: Ah.

SHERLOCK: Yes. Out of the blue. And five if not ten years earlier than he had any right to expect, too. _(John runs a hand over his face, then shakes his head in disbelief.)_ I know. I told you I don't like it either. You were right when you said this case has been weighing on my mind ever since I heard about it. But it was only when we came back from Henry's, and I found out about MacDee's promotion, that I knew we'd _have_ to come up here and look into it ourselves.

JOHN: So you knew that already, that he'd been made DI? No clever deduction at all?

SHERLOCK _(with a rueful smile):_ I'm afraid not. Just a phone call to the Grampian Police HQ by a former student of Joseph Bell's, who said he was planning to write his biography, and asked to interview the officer who investigated his death. They referred the enquirer to their PR department instead, of course, but not before informing him, rather proudly, that the DS Macdonald he was asking after was now a DI. _(He smiles again.)_ I may have neglected to book a hotel room, John, but I didn't come here entirely unprepared.

 _John frowns, and then after a moment responds with a smile of his own, but a very lopsided one._

JOHN: You can be _such_ a prick, you know that? So we invited ourselves to stay at his place on purpose, too, did we? So you could keep a close watch on him, and he'd have nowhere to hide and recoup? _(He puffs out a loud breath.)_ That's a whole new level of perfidy, Sherlock, it really is.

 _Sherlock grins as if he can imagine no greater compliment._

SHERLOCK: I did give him a fair warning though.

JOHN: What? That you were suspecting him of foul play, and that you'd be watching?

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course.

JOHN: When did – _(comprehension dawning on his face)_ – oh. _Oh._ Last night, right, at supper? "No one's above suspicion", you said. "Never rule out that there could be a bad apple in your own ranks." _(Sherlock smiles wryly. John shakes his head again.)_ Jesus, you've got a nerve. To his face, in his own house -

SHERLOCK: I thought it'd be interesting to see his reaction. And it was.

JOHN: He thought it was funny, Sherlock. He _laughed._

SHERLOCK: Yes. And then he fled.

 _John walks on in silence for a few yards, running a hand along the back of his neck, his shoulders twitching uncomfortably._

SHERLOCK _(glancing at his friend's discomfort):_ What is it, midges? At this time of the year?

JOHN: No. Just trying to image how MacDee must be feeling now, if you're right about him. Christ, he must be sweating.

SHERLOCK _(coldly):_ _If_ I'm right, he deserves every minute of it.

 _Another silence falls. The track they are on takes them slightly downhill again now, to the edge of yet another patch of trees. When they enter the wood, the path narrows so they have to walk in single file, Sherlock in the lead, John bringing up the rear. John is so lost in thought that he is threatening to fall behind again._

JOHN _(thinking aloud):_ So, that promotion. If it was so unexpected, then it was either a reward or a bribe, right?

SHERLOCK: Yes. But if you want me to spec -

JOHN: No, I'm just wondering who around here would be in the position to both manipulate a psychiatric patient and his doctors, to the point of extracting a fake murder confession, _and_ to secure an out-of-turn promotion for a police officer, too. _(In a tone of disquiet)_ And I'm not sure I like the implications.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ No? I find them intriguing. Although it may not be as big a secret as it seems. It's quite possible that MacDee told us himself, last night.

JOHN: What? When?

SHERLOCK: Very early on. Before supper.

JOHN: Before supper? We just talked a bit about Greg, didn't we, and about crime statistics, and then he got carried away a bit about Scottish politics…

SHERLOCK: There you are.

JOHN: Politics? You mean we're looking at a political murder? Oh, come on.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Not so far-fetched. A string of them from early Scottish history made it straight into world literature, you know.

JOHN _(with a laugh):_ Oh, _that_. But that's just a story.

SHERLOCK: – that was dreamed up, in shameless defiance of all historical accuracy, by a poet who, according to the scholars, very likely didn't even exist himself?

JOHN: Yeah, anyone here mention conspiracy theories?

SHERLOCK _(deadpan):_ Not that I heard.

 _They glance at each other, and then both at the same time crack up laughing. It is like the sun coming out from behind a dark, dark cloud at last. John's face brightens considerably, and it remains that way for the rest of the scene. Sherlock, seeing it, has a hard time trying to hide just how happy it makes him._

SHERLOCK _(still chuckling):_ Want to hear my top five reasons why Macbeth in fact _can't_ have murdered King Duncan?

JOHN _(with a snort):_ _Top_ five? Meaning there are more?

SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. Eleven or twelve, last time I counted.

 _This brings on a fresh bout of laughter. They keep giggling for a while as they walk along, until Sherlock speaks up, serious again._

SHERLOCK: I wasn't really thinking of political motives for the murder, you know. What would they be? But MacDee certainly lost no time telling us that he has friends in high places. In a fairly small community, where everyone knows everyone, and everyone's a member of the SNP -

JOHN _(still grinning):_ \- except Constable McGregor and his staunch fellow royalists from Balmoral, of course… No, I see what you mean. _(A pause. Serious again)_ Right, I'm still not buying it. MacDee as one of the bad guys, I mean. He'd have to be a better actor than you. As a theory, fine. But promise me you won't lose sight of any alternatives, alright?

SHERLOCK: Not that I like the only possible alternative any better.

JOHN: What, you don't like the idea that he's innocent?

SHERLOCK _(darkly):_ I don't like the idea that someone's using him as a puppet.

 _He pops out the last word with sharp emphasis, then snaps his mouth shut with finality, all the good humour of a moment ago completely gone. John sighs._

JOHN: And anyway, all that doesn't take us one step closer to finding out who killed Bell, and why, does it?

SHERLOCK _(glancing at his watch):_ Not one step, John? We must be nearly there. _(Quickening his pace)_ We'll soon find out why, and the why will take us to the who.


	7. Chapter 7

**_The interior of Joseph Bell's log cabin,_** _quiet and deserted. Dim light filters through the closed shutters of a single small window, and falls directly onto a small table in the middle of the room. There is a wooden chair on either side of it, and it is strewn with papers - leaflets and books with pictures of the National Park, of flowers and of wildlife on the covers; photographs of the local landscape, of birds in their natural habitat, and even of an empty nest with a cluster of speckled little eggs in it; several folded maps; computer printouts with charts and diagrams that look like temperature curves, or rainfall measurements; and on one side, close to the table's edge, a large open notebook, the page half filled with minuscule, spidery handwriting, but badly blotted by some brownish liquid, now dry, that must have been sloshed all over it. The stainless steel mug from which it must have spilled is next to it, but it has been put upright again. In the centre of the table, like a lighthouse rising out of a sea of paper, stands an old-fashioned oil lamp._

 _There is the sound of a key in a lock, the door opens with a creak, and first Sherlock and then John enters the hut, Sherlock stooping under the low lintel. John leaves the door open to let in some more light, and they take their bearings. We follow Sherlock's eyes as they travel around the single room of the hut._

 _High on the wooden wall opposite the window, on Sherlock and John's left, a rack has been installed to display Joseph Bell's fateful collection of historic harpoons - three long weapons, with dark polished wooden handles and sharp steel flues. The space for the fourth - the lowest on the rack - is empty. Directly underneath, a low bookshelf contains several rows of antique-looking leather-bound volumes and some plain cardboard boxes, neatly labelled. Further to the left, in the corner near the door, there is a small side table with a camping stove and a kettle on top of it; a little stack of more metal mugs, plates and cutlery, all of the plain, pragmatic outdoor kind that you take with you on hiking or camping trips; a box of PG Tips tea bags; and some boxes and tins with non-perishable food._

 _In the corner opposite the improvised kitchen, to Sherlock and John's right, a small iron stove has been installed, with a stack of wood to feed the fire, a poker and a pair of iron fire tongs next to it. There is a row of pegs on the wall above it, with a blue gore-tex jacket, black rainproof trousers, an old-fashioned cloth cap, and a pair of binoculars hanging from them. On the floor directly in front of the stove, on a folded sheet of old newspaper, stands a pair of sturdy hiking boots, caked with dried mud. Further along, beyond the window, a wooden bunk has been built into the far corner, with a mattress and bedding on it, neatly made. There are more bookshelves above the bed, filled with what looks like modern publications, both proper books and folders full of papers. On a stool next to the head of the bed, there is another, smaller oil lamp with a box of matches next to it, and a sheaf of papers – stapled-together photocopies that must have made up the late Professor's last bedtime reading._

 _And then, finally, the centrepiece of the still life. Directly opposite the door, a large topographical map of the Cairngorms National Park - at least three feet by three - has been nailed to the far wall. But now one corner has been torn loose, and is hanging down melancholically. Right in the centre of the map, there is a large tear in the paper, surrounded by a big dark brown splotch, and rivulets of the same substance have run down from it all the way to the floor. Pieces of wooden splinters, torn from the wall and equally soaked, poke out of the ragged hole. Above and on both sides, the map is blotched with dried blood, too, so badly in places that it has obscured the print. Sherlock's eyes, fixed on the stained map, narrow. Then his gaze travels down to the wooden floorboards. They have been scrubbed clean._

 _John's eyes are on his friend rather than on the details of the scene, his eyebrows drawn together in an expression of concern. When Sherlock neither moves nor speaks for at least another minute, he discreetly clears his throat._

JOHN: So - where do we start? Shall I open that window to let in more light?

 _Sherlock nods, and John proceeds to open the shutters. Sherlock blinks in the sudden brightness. John returns, and nods towards the low bookshelf with the antique tomes, next to the harpoons._

JOHN _(in a feeble attempt at joking):_ And let me guess, the last thing we're interested in are those?

 _The corners of Sherlock's mouth go up in the ghost of a smile. Then he takes a few steps into the room, towards the map on the wall, scanning the floor with his eyes._

JOHN: Is this where we could have seen the footsteps of at least two strangers?

SHERLOCK: Yes. _(He walks even closer to the map, and reaches out with his hand as if to touch the hole in its middle. John, behind his back, grimaces with sympathy.)_ Three, John. Definitely three. _(He lets his hand sink down again, and turns abruptly back towards his friend. The spots of dried blood on the map, standing out starkly against the pale paper, surround his head and shoulders like a horrible travesty of a halo.)_ Bell was about my own height. For the weapon to go through his heart like it did, he must have been practically on tiptoe. No single accomplice of the killer could have held him to the wall like that, not without superhuman strength, and not without being directly in the line of the thrust himself. Hence, three in all. _(He turns his face away again, looking out of the window into a far distance. Quietly)_ He didn't stand a chance.

 _John swallows and opens his mouth as if to say something, but Sherlock is already moving again. He walks over to the table, carefully picks up the oil lamp, and holds it up to the light. The dark green glass container at its bottom is about half full._

SHERLOCK: Put out, not burned off. _(He puts it back down, then turns to the iron stove. He opens its door and puts his hand inside the hearth.)_ Still damp, after two weeks. Dowsed with water. Not by men with limited intelligence, obviously. Quite the opposite. _(He pulls his hand back out and dusts it off.)_ Someone's taken great care not to draw attention to this place by letting it catch fire.

JOHN _(gently):_ Well, remember you said we should focus on the why, and that would give us the who.

 _Sherlock continues to brood for a moment, but then he suddenly straightens up and squares his shoulders, as if he was only waiting for John's signal to do so._

SHERLOCK _(crisply):_ Right, yes. What are we waiting for?

 _John begins his search in the kitchen corner, peering into mugs and boxes, while Sherlock sits down in a chair by the table and methodically starts going through the papers on it, glancing over one after the other, and putting them aside in a neat stack. A few minutes later, John moves over to the corner with the bed. After examining the bedding and the mattress, but finding nothing extraordinary about it, he turns his attention to the papers on the improvised bedside table. Settling down on the edge of the bed, he carefully places the whole sheaf on his lap, then starts leafing through them. He pulls a face._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ Oh, nasty.

SHERLOCK _(without looking up_ ): What've you got there?

JOHN: Medical stuff. American Journal of Clinical Dermatology. _(He turns pages.)_ Some in Italian. And something that looks ancient – German, I think, in that funny old-fashioned print they used to -

 _He glances up at Sherlock, but his friend, deeply absorbed in his own reading, is clearly not listening. John shrugs, and puts the papers back in their place. Then he squats down to peer under the bed, and pulls out the toolbox that has been placed there. He is in the process of opening it when Sherlock speaks up behind his back._

SHERLOCK: What's a twite, John?

JOHN _(without turning round):_ No idea. What's it supposed to be?

 _He opens the box, and whistles at the well-stocked and well-ordered contents._

SHERLOCK: A bird?

JOHN: Look it up. No shortage of reference books here.

 _There is the sound of rustling pages from the direction of the table, while John picks up a torch from the toolbox, experimentally switches it on and off, and puts it back again. Then he replaces the box where he found it, and straightens up, his eyes already on the bookshelves above the bed. He kneels on the edge of the bed and reaches for the first book when Sherlock leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath._

JOHN _(turning back towards him):_ Find anything?

 _Sherlock wordlessly holds up Bell's tea-stained notebook. John abandons the books above the bed and walks over to join his friend._

SHERLOCK: The last five entries.

JOHN _(taking the notebook and reading aloud):_ "Feb 7th, twite, three eggs, 310110, 796710." What are those, OS grid coordinates?

SHERLOCK: What else?

JOHN _(reading again):_ "Feb 14th, black grouse, four eggs, 304965, 792- " _(He breaks off and holds the book up to the light.)_ Bah, what a mess. 792360, I'd say. Well, he _was_ meticulous about his observations. _(With an affectionate glance at his friend)_ Sounds familiar. _(Sherlock doesn't react. John hands the notebook back to him.)_ So, what's wrong with it?

SHERLOCK: Wouldn't you say February's a bit early in the year for birds to be nesting? _(He holds up another book with his left hand.)_ The _RSPB Handbook of Scottish Birds_ agrees.

JOHN: So - you mean that notebook isn't about birds at all?

SHERLOCK: Most of it probably is, but not these last five entries. The only ones that have eggs mentioned. February 7th, 14th, 16th, 17th, and 19th.

JOHN: Two days before he died. _(He takes his phone out of his pocket. In an enterprising tone)_ Right, what were the coordinates again? _(He leans across to look, and types them into his phone, then stands frowning at the screen while he waits for a map to load.)_ Ah. Just around the corner from here. _(He looks up, and seems surprised to see Sherlock just sitting there, watching.)_ Go on, mark it on a proper map. _(Gesturing at his phone)_ The one in here's no use. Atrocious resolution, and no contour lines at all.

SHERLOCK _(slightly flustered):_ Right.

 _He hurries to rummage through the clutter on the table for a map, but John sees it before he does - the same Landranger map that Constable McGregor showed them the way to the hut on. John picks it up and puts his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder, not ungently but still unmistakeably urging him off his seat._

JOHN: Go on, you read, I locate.

 _Sherlock, a bit overwhelmed by the rare experience of John taking charge, gets up. John takes his chair, spreads the map out in front of him, places his phone next to it, fishes a biro out of the inner pocket of his jacket, neatly circles a location on the map and adds a number "3", for three eggs._

JOHN _(even before he is quite done, and without looking up):_ Okay, next.

 _Sherlock takes the notebook over to the window and reads out the next line of numbers. John types, waits, then marks it on the map, too._

JOHN: Next. _(Sherlock squints at the third line, which is so obscured by the tea stains that it seems to be almost impossible to read.)_ And hurry up, my battery's going.

SHERLOCK: 30346 – No, make that – _(He holds the page up for the light to go through it. John is tapping his foot impatiently.)_ – 303450, 795765.

 _John works like a little machine, with complete focus, great precision, and at an ever increasing speed. He types, writes and snaps out the demand for the next coordinates without wasting a second of their time. A minute and a half later, all five locations from the notebook are marked down, and John leans back._

SHERLOCK _(impressed):_ That was quick.

JOHN _(modestly, but actually quite pleased):_ Yeah, it's part of the -

SHERLOCK _(in a mocking tone):_ \- boy scouts for grown-ups?

 _There is a single beep from John's phone on the table, and then the screen goes black._

JOHN _(drily):_ I knew it wouldn't hold out for a more civilian approach.

 _Sherlock makes an excellent job of hiding just how pleased he is with his friend's efficiency._

SHERLOCK: At least we got a signal here at all.

JOHN: A very weak one. It had to fight to stay connected, or the battery would have lasted longer.

SHERLOCK: Well, never mind. We've still got mine, and McGregor's radio. _(John nods.)_ So, what have we got? _(John holds up the map so Sherlock can study it over his friend's shoulder)_ Five locations, all within a, what, five mile radius from here?

JOHN: Mmh. The first one, directly to the north, here - _(He points.)_ – is the closest, at least as the crow flies. Barely a mile. The second, to the west – _(He points again.)_ – is at least an hour's walk away. As are those other two over there. The last, here, to the east of us, is much closer again, only about a mile and a half off. _(He frowns, glancing over the map.)_ They're all on the lower reaches of the hills. None above two thousand feet. All off the beaten track, too – definitely off the main hiking routes. And all very close to -

SHERLOCK _(leaning in for a better look):_ \- watercourses. ( _He straightens up with a frown.)_ Or in water? _Under_ water?

JOHN: Hard to tell, until we know what they are. Other than "not birds' nests", of course.

 _Sherlock, who has closed his eyes for a moment, now opens them again._

SHERLOCK: I think I know exactly what they are.

 _But for all the certainty in his actual words, he looks less than content, certainly not triumphant, and far from happy. John frowns in his turn._

SHERLOCK: John. _(He turns and points towards the corner with Joseph Bell's bed.)_ What were you saying? Dermatology? Italian?

JOHN _(puzzled):_ Yeah.

 _Sherlock marches over to pick up the papers from the stool by the bed, and carries them back to the table._

SHERLOCK: Of course, of course. _(He picks up the first.)_ A study on the long-term effects of the use of Agent Orange in the Vietnam War on the Vietnamese population.

JOHN: Yeah, I saw.

SHERLOCK _(holding up the next paper):_ A talk at the Società Italiana di Dermatologia Medica, on the aftermath of the Seveso disaster. And that ancient one must be - _(checking the title)_ \- yes, Karl Herxheimer's -

JOHN: But they're not Bell's. _(He nods at the papers.)_ All of those were written by other people.

SHERLOCK: Yes, I know! It's not that. _(He runs both hands through his hair and tugs at it, as if to force his thoughts into order.)_ John, ever since MacDee told us about Alan Gilroy being worried about Bell, about Bell calling off their appointment, I've been racking my brains _why_ he cancelled it.

JOHN: MacDee told us. Because he was busy working, and didn't want to be disturbed.

SHERLOCK _(letting go of his hair and throwing up his hands, impatiently):_ Oh, that's rubbish. For someone who knew Bell, as Gilroy supposedly did, that would have been no reason to worry at all. None of his _friends_ \- which I'm surprised to hear that he had, at any rate - would have found anything extraordinary about that. It was perfectly in character, for him. No, if he got Gilroy worried, there had to be something more, something that Gilroy either didn't tell the police, or that MacDee saw fit not to pass on to us. And -

JOHN: Ah! Now that's more in tune with _my_ favourite theory.

SHERLOCK _(momentarily distracted):_ What do you mean?

JOHN: Alan Gilroy, of course. That shady character who _(indicating quotation marks with his fingers)_ „found" Bell in the first place, made sure he appeared shell-shocked by his death, and then bunked off to South America. How's that for a murder suspect?

 _Sherlock's face falls. He regards his friend for a moment with an expression of deepest disappointment, then shakes his head._

SHERLOCK: John, how do you always manage _not_ to see the truth, even when it's staring you in the face? _(John looks rather offended. Sherlock, ignoring it, gives the stack of medical papers a pat.)_ Come on, what's the unifying factor between Agent Orange in the Vietnam War, and the Seveso disaster in Italy?

JOHN _(miffed):_ 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin?

SHERLOCK: Good! Commonly known as - ?

JOHN: TCDD, or simply dioxin.

SHERLOCK: And now tell me, Doctor: Quite apart from all the nasty effects it has when it's released into the environment, what does it do to your skin when you're exposed to a large dose of it?

JOHN _(pulling a face):_ I know. _(He nods at the papers.)_ There are some nice pictures in that American article. Chloracne. Your whole face comes out in pustules - weeping sores, too, in the more serious cases. They feel exactly as bad as they look. And treatment is purely symptomatic, so they'll leave you looking jaundiced, bloated, and pockmarked for a good long - oh. _(His eyes grow wide.)_ _Oh._ Ouch _. (Soberly)_ Sorry.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ Yes, ouch. Of course you wouldn't like your friends to see you like that, not until you were ready to disclose just where and how you caught that.

JOHN _(crossing his arms):_ So you mean that there is a source of dioxin poisoning somewhere out here? In a National Park?

SHERLOCK: Not just one, John. Five.

JOHN _(glancing over the map again, deeply disquieted now):_ And all of them in or close to watercourses that eventually flow into the Dee? _(Looking up again)_ Jesus, that would be just monstrous. One leaky barrel, and - _(He sighs, and shakes his head.)_ And you think Bell got in contact with the stuff, and got chloracne from it?

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

JOHN: Christ, the poor sod. Out here, on his own - _(He grimaces.)_ Must have been hell.

SHERLOCK: Explains the long break between his first and second expedition, doesn't it? But he must have gone out again as soon as he could, to find out if there was more. And when he realised that this corner of the Park was actually full of the stuff, he got in touch with Gilroy to tell him. But then –

JOHN: No, wait, that can't be right. Those skin lesions, they'll stay for weeks, months, even years sometimes. Everyone who saw the body will have noticed them, but nobody's mentioned them so far.

SHERLOCK: Remember what _I_ looked like when I came back from the abattoir, John. And imagine I had a dark full beard as well, which Bell had. Under all that blood and all that hair, your focus really wouldn't have been on any irregularities of my facial skin. And now think back – the policemen who handled the case all admitted that they were glad not to take too close a look at the body. Constable McGregor, who never went further than the door; MacDee, who backed off again as soon as he decently could; and even the SOCOs, who reportedly came out for a breath of air every couple of minutes – none of them will have examined the face of the victim with any amount of diligence.

JOHN: It would have been in the autopsy report.

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully):_ Which MacDee probably never even read, with the killer safe in custody already. No, as I was saying, something must have happened when Bell discovered the fifth of these locations, to make him change his mind about sharing the secret with Gilroy. And that meant he had to call off their whole meeting, because his face would have given it away even if he'd told his friend nothing. _(With a reproachful look at John)_ So much for your theory, John. An environmental journalist with a reputation for mercilessly putting his finger on sore spots - if someone illegally dumped dioxin somewhere out here in the National Park, and Bell discovered it, what better ally could he have wished for?

JOHN: And yet he decided not to tell him after all.

SHERLOCK: Not yet, at any rate. He was probably telling the truth when he said he was still busy working something out, and wasn't finished yet.

JOHN: But what could that have been? What made him hesitate?

SHERLOCK: No idea. But these - _(He picks up the stack of medical articles.)_ \- have told us all they can, I think.

 _He tilts them upright to straighten them into a neat pile. A small white piece of paper comes fluttering out from between the pages, and drifts slowly down to the floor. Sherlock stoops to pick it up, glances over it – and freezes._

JOHN _(seeing it, in a worried tone):_ What is it?

 _Sherlock stands utterly still for a moment, then he slowly raises his head. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock speaks up in a strangely remote voice, thin and strained._

SHERLOCK: Nothing. Just – _(He swallows.)_ Just a phone number.

 _John very gently takes it from him, reads it, and looks up at Sherlock again, aghast. Then shock gives way to genuine, deep-felt grief. John opens his mouth – but then he closes it again, lost for words._


	8. Chapter 8

**_Outside Joseph Bell's hut._** _The hut nestles against the northern flank of the upper reaches of the Quoich Water. The pine trees are beginning to thin out here, and the hut overlooks a pleasantly undulating patch of open grassland, strewn with grey, lichen-covered boulders of rock. Down at the bottom of the slope, the water runs in a narrow bed, its banks overgrown with dark green moss. The sun is low in the western sky, visible only as a pale spot behind grey clouds. A breeze has sprung up, chasing the clouds across the sky, but down here in the shelter of the hills, all is quiet. There could not be a more peaceful scene._

 _Sherlock is sitting on a rough wooden bench against the outer wall of the hut, to the left of the open door, facing the brook. He is huddled in his coat and scarf, and has his hands in his pockets and his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, very still. A moment later, there is a small noise from within the hut, and John steps out, carrying two of Joseph Bell's stainless steel tea mugs, gently steaming, in his hands, and a flat red cardboard box under his arm. Sherlock turns his head and opens his eyes. They are slightly bloodshot, but dry. John smiles a small, rather rueful smile, and hands Sherlock one of the mugs. Sherlock accepts it with a nod, and closes his fingers around it as if to warm them. John sits down next to his friend. There is a silence, until John breaks it very gently._

JOHN: But he didn't actually call you, did he?

SHERLOCK _(in a voice devoid of all emotion):_ No, he didn't.

 _He takes a sip of his tea, stares into his mug as if he could find any answers in there, then takes another._

JOHN: Tell me about him. If you like.

 _Sherlock raises his head to look into the distance. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. When he speaks, it is still in the same low voice, very controlled, strangely at odds with his actual words._

SHERLOCK: He was amazing. One of the most extraordinary men I've ever met. _(John nods. Sherlock drinks. A pause.)_ He really knew how to use his brain. And his eyes. In his proper field - nobody alive could hold a candle to him, nobody. He was always eager to expand his knowledge, and he knew how to keep everything he gathered right at his fingertips, too. Maybe that was the most fascinating thing about him, how he applied all that vast knowledge. Connected facts that nobody thought belonged together, saw interrelations that nobody else did. _(With a fleeting smile)_ It was he who taught me how to build and use a Mind Palace, you know.

 _John, with a small smile of his own, drinks. When Sherlock doesn't continue, John clears his throat._

JOHN: What was he like? I mean, apart from being a brilliant scientist, obviously. As a person.

 _Sherlock contemplates his answer for a moment, his brows drawn together._

SHERLOCK: Difficult.

JOHN: Try.

SHERLOCK: No, I mean Bell. _He_ was difficult. In every way. Difficult to get along with. Quick to anger, even at trifles. Downright choleric, if something went against his will, and against his convictions. He could get very loud then. That, and his outward appearance - my height, as I said, but half as wide again, a shock of greying hair, and that trademark full beard… he could be quite intimidating. Difficult to please, too. Very exacting. Impatient, at best, with those he thought had it in them to live up to his own standards. Merciless with all who didn't. Very sparing of compliments, even when you did deserve them. "Not bad, for an Englishman" was the highest praise I ever got from him. Once. _(He takes another sip of his tea.)_ Or it may have been twice.

 _He falls silent again. John is actually grinning now, but he carefully hides it in his tea mug._

JOHN _(attempting a casual tone):_ You two sound like a match made in heaven.

 _Sherlock snorts, but doesn't answer. The silence stretches between them._

JOHN _(serious again):_ And yet -

 _Sherlock shifts in his seat, and puts his mug down on the bench next to him._

SHERLOCK: - I dropped out, you mean? Yes, I did.

JOHN: Why? I mean -

SHERLOCK _(in a tone of sudden cold indifference):_ I know what you mean. It can't have been the quality of my work he disapproved of, so it must have been something about my person, mustn't it? _(Snappishly)_ Well, you've got that wrong, John, no matter what Molly Hooper told you about it.

 _John seems taken aback for moment at Sherlock's hostile tone, but then rallies._

JOHN _(bluntly):_ You mean he _didn't_ disapprove of you taking drugs? Hard to believe.

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Oh, nonsense. Of course he disapproved. Everybody did, why should he have been any different?

JOHN: But - ?

SHERLOCK: But when I'd practically finished my thesis -

JOHN: - he was fed up with it, and kicked you out?

SHERLOCK: No. _I_ left.

JOHN: Why?

SHERLOCK _(flatly):_ Because I found out that he was reporting to Mycroft. And had been, since the very first day I came to work in his lab.

 _John lets out a long breath. Sherlock crosses his arms, pulling his coat closer around himself, and returns to staring straight ahead into their green surroundings. We can hear birds chirping, and a sudden gust of wind rustling the branches of the trees. John turns his tea mug in his hands._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ And you never kept in touch, after that?

SHERLOCK: No. That is, he always kept a kind of residual interest in how I was faring, from afar. Even pointed a client or two my way when I set up the detective business in earnest. One of them, a late colleague's wife, actually brought me one of my most memorable cases.

JOHN: Memorable, how?

SHERLOCK: It introduced me to Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

JOHN _(with a short bark of laughter):_ Oh boy.

SHERLOCK _(unsmiling):_ Yes. But other than that, no, nothing. _(With a shrug)_ What would have been the point? I disappointed him, and he disappointed me. What was there left to do but part ways?

 _Another silence. Then -_

JOHN _(very quietly):_ That's really how you think it works, isn't it?

 _Sherlock shrugs again. John regards his friend for a moment with his eyebrows drawn together, but then decides to let the matter rest._

JOHN: So. _(He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles.)_ "Not bad, for an Englishman", does that mean he was one of those proud Scotsmen, too?

SHERLOCK _(resurfacing from his gloom, in a more animated tone again):_ Yes, sure. He'd have scoffed at the pettiness of day-to-day politics, but in the greater scheme of things, he cared a lot. _(He waves his hand around the beautiful scenery.)_ He really loved this. And he meant it, all the work he put into it, looking after the flora and fauna, keeping this place safe and intact. I never understood how he could neglect his real work for weeks on end to come up here, just because it was the right season to observe his favourite migrant birds or something. But I know he must have been beside himself with rage when he found out that someone was turning this place into an unofficial toxic waste dump. I can see him lose sight of everything else then, of his own health, his own safety… Which only makes it all the more strange that he didn't blurt it all out to Alan Gilroy on the first occasion that offered. _That_ wasn't like him. But anyway, yes, he was very, I don't know, grounded here. In his own family history, in this place.

JOHN: But he had no family of his own?

SHERLOCK: Oh no, of course not.

 _He picks up his mug again, and drinks._

JOHN: And no friends either, you said.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Surprised?

JOHN: Except Alan Gilroy, apparently.

SHERLOCK: I suppose they were simply united by a common purpose. Looking after the Park, I mean. Two men who loved their country. _(He sits up straight, and turns fully towards John.)_ We're surrounded by men who love their country, John. Everyone, _everyone_ we come across on this case, loves their country, and makes sure we hear of it. I wonder what that means.

JOHN: Well, look around. And remember that view, on the way here. It's not difficult to love, is it? _(Seeing Sherlock still looking rather glum)_ Oh, come on. Loving your country isn't a crime, is it?

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Just never does anyone any good.

JOHN _(a bit miffed):_ Excuse me?

SHERLOCK: It got you shot, didn't it?

 _There is a silence. The two friends look at each other, Sherlock sullen, John rather hurt. Then John braces himself, and thrusts the flat red cardboard box he had placed on the bench next to him at Sherlock._

JOHN: Here. Eat something.

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ Why?

JOHN: Because we haven't had anything since breakfast. And because you're marginally less insufferable with a full stomach.

 _Sherlock pulls a face, but he takes the box and opens it. A moment later, they're both munching on a piece of shortbread each._

JOHN _(between bites):_ So, what do we do now?

SHERLOCK _(chewing):_ Obvious, isn't it?

JOHN: What's obvious to me is that there's barely an hour of daylight left, and we're still half an hours' walk away from civilisation _. (He jerks his chin upwards at the grey clouds.)_ Not to mention that we're going to get wet, too, if we don't start moving soon. Don't you think it's time you put those boy scout skills of yours to the test, and get Constable McGregor to pick us up at the end of the road?

 _Sherlock takes the two-way radio out of the pocket of his coat and weighs it in his hand, then gives John a brief sidelong grin._

SHERLOCK: Don't you think it's time to put _your_ boy scout skills to the test, and find us the quickest way to one of Bell's birds' nests?

JOHN: What? Why? We know what he found there, and we've marked the locations. Why -

SHERLOCK: Don't you want to know why Alan Gilroy met with that rebuff, when he was inches away from finding out about the toxic waste scandal of the decade? The answer to that isn't here in the hut, John, so it must be out there _. (Seeing John looking less than enthusiastic)_ John, if we turn back now, we'll never make it here again, not without having to do a lot of explaining to a lot of people who may prove less than helpful when they hear what we're after. _(Urgently)_ This is our only chance to clear the matter up undisturbed, once and for all. We can be fairly sure now that Bell was killed because he had found out about the dioxin, but we still don't know by whom. _(John frowns, clearly unhappy. Sherlock twirls the radio between his fingers, and then tosses it to John, who only just catches it.)_ Here. You keep that on you, if it makes you feel better. Just so you know we're not going without a lifeline. And now where's that map?

 _John sighs, puts the radio in the inner pocket of his jacket, gets up and re-enters the hut. He emerges a moment later with the folded Landranger map, and the torch from Bell's toolbox._

JOHN: I'd feel better taking a pair of gas masks as well, but I couldn't find any.

 _He returns to his place on the bench and unfolds the map. Sherlock holds it by its other edge, so they can study it together._

JOHN _(pointing):_ The one to the north of here? The first he found? It's the closest.

SHERLOCK: No, of course not. The last one, to the east, the one that made him change his mind about taking Gilroy into his confidence. Two eggs, on the _(peering at the lettering)_ Allt an t-Slugain. _(Tracing a line on the map with his finger, confidently)_ And look, we can continue straight south from that point, until we hit that road. We can have McGregor pick us up there.

JOHN _(resigned):_ Sherlock, do you actually _know_ what contour lines are? We'd need wings to get down from the southern flank of that hill.

 _Sherlock looks mightily put out for a moment, but then composes his face into a dignified expression._

SHERLOCK: Creag.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: A steep slope on the flank of a hill is called a "creag" in Scotland, Hamish.

 _John sniffs audibly, folds the map, and gets to his feet._

JOHN _(conversationally):_ You sure you don't want to swap your shoes for Bell's hiking boots? They looked your size.

 _Sherlock opens his mouth to retaliate in kind, but can seem to think of nothing suitable to say, and finds himself reduced to a mere pout. John grins._


	9. Chapter 9

**_A deep wooded ravine,_** _very similar to the ones Sherlock and John passed through in Constable McGregor's police car earlier in the day, on their way to Joseph Bell's hut. Another little brook - the Allt an t-Slugain - meanders along in its rocky bed at the bottom of the valley, and there are dense clusters of pine trees on the steep slopes on either side of the water. The sky above is still more grey than dark, but down here, it is already twilight, dimming fast. Sherlock and John come climbing down the western slope towards the water, John in the lead, map in hand. At the bottom, they pause._

JOHN: Right, here we are.

 _Sherlock pulls out his phone, and shakes his head._

SHERLOCK: No signal here.

JOHN: Well, never mind. It must be somewhere between here and where the brook turns the corner, over there _. (He points at a large pile of boulders some twenty yards upstream, where the little valley narrows even further, and turns eastward in a sharp bend. In an afterthought)_ I know, "burn".

SHERLOCK _(with a grin):_ Didn't hear me say a word, did you?

 _He clambers over the rocks lining the watercourse, upstream, carefully scanning their surroundings at every step. John follows, a little reluctantly now that they must be very close to a possible source of contamination. They reach the large boulders without noticing anything unusual, but when they round them, Sherlock puts out his arm to stop his friend._

SHERLOCK: This is it. Our two eggs.

 _John halts, pockets the map, and takes out the torch from Professor Bell's toolbox instead. He shines it straight ahead. The running water of the brook catches the light and reflects it, gurgling quietly as it flows - not only over the rocks of its bed, but also past a large steel barrel, painted blue. It sits right at the water's edge, leaning a little drunkenly against the boulder it was hidden behind. And there is another one of the same kind tucked away behind the first. Sherlock takes the torch from John and makes his way over, deftly crossing the water by its natural stepping stones. He reaches the barrel in front, and runs a hand along its upper edge._

SHERLOCK: Fast closed.

 _He stoops, and shines the torch into the gap between the bottom of the barrel and the sharp, irregular rocks it stands on. John grimaces._

SHERLOCK _(in a reassuring tone):_ And not rusted through at the bottom, either.

 _He squeezes past the first, and examines the second barrel in the same manner. When he resurfaces, there is an expression of great satisfaction on his face._

SHERLOCK: And I've found something even better, too.

 _John crosses the brook to join his friend. Sherlock shines the torch into the gap between the two barrels. John leans over the first to look. The small circle of light immediately captures a bright orange sign depicting a skull and crossbones. It forms part of the remains of a yellow Hazchem label, the sort that is legally required to be stuck on all containers and vehicles used to store or transport hazardous goods. The bottom half of the label has been torn off, but the top half remains glued to the metal surface of the barrel, clearly visible._

SHERLOCK: They teach you about those in the boy scouts, too?

JOHN: Yeah, sure. _(He points at the top left corner.)_ Emergency response code - full personal protective gear at all times. _(With a disapproving glance at his friend)_ For all those who care, at any rate. Below, the UN identification number of the actual substance. Don't know all of those by heart, but I'm guessing that 2811 stands for TCDD? _(Sherlock nods.)_ And then under that, the phone number to be contacted in case of emergency. _(He goes on tip-toe for a better look.)_ 01224-55-, that's all that's left. The field with the company name and logo is gone, too, of course.

 _They straighten up, and a moment later, another small source of light springs up between them, from the screen of Sherlock's phone._

JOHN: I thought you didn't have a signal?

SHERLOCK _(punching a few buttons):_ I don't. But I had a hunch we'd come across them again sooner or later, so I put them in my contacts before we came here. _(He holds out his phone to John.)_ Or what would you say are the chances of _two_ companies in Aberdeen that handle toxic waste both having a phone number that starts with a double five?

 _John takes the phone and reads the entry, then looks back up at Sherlock._

JOHN _(in a tone of utter disbelief):_ MacMillan Disposal?

SHERLOCK: Surprised? _(He receives his phone back.)_ Dioxin is a frequent by-product of waste combustion, after all.

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ Jesus. The biggest sponsor of the National Park -

SHERLOCK: - using its back alleys as a convenient overfall basin for his more problematic substances? Well, we have it on good authority that nobody's an angel, not even Coinneach MacMillan. Remember?

 _There is a pause. Then John squeezes his eyes shut in a pained expression._

JOHN: God, no - that means MacDee -

SHERLOCK: Mmh. But as you pointed out yourself only this morning, with four kids and a mortgage to look after, it's no surprise he should be susceptible to temptation. Combine that with the blindness that always comes with idolising a fellow human being far beyond their real merits - and even a decent police officer can end up on the wrong side of the law.

JOHN _(shaking his head, with genuine grief):_ I really, _really_ didn't want that bit to be true.

 _Sherlock regards his friend for a moment with an uncanny impression of deep sympathy, then breaks into a cheeky grin. John, seeing it, frowns._

SHERLOCK _(in a very cheerful tone):_ Then you'll be relieved to hear that it isn't?

JOHN: What? MacDee playing foul, you mean? _(He points at the barrels.)_ This practically condemns him, doesn't it?

SHERLOCK: No, it exonerates him. Both of them, in fact, both Coinneach MacMillan _and_ his biggest fan in the Grampian Police.

JOHN _(utterly bewildered):_ _What?_

SHERLOCK: Look closely. _(They both lean over the barrel in front again, and peer into the gap, their heads very close together. Sherlock shines the light along the torn lower edge of the Hazchem label.)_ Can you see what I mean? Run your fingers along it. _(John does as instructed.)_ Anything strange about it?

JOHN: No - quite smooth, actually. Oh, right! _That's_ strange, yes. It's been torn, but the edge is firmly glued down. _(Straightening up.)_ That means -

SHERLOCK: - that the company name and phone number were either torn off before the label was ever attached; or they were torn off afterwards, but the rest was carefully secured again. Either way, it's no coincidence that there's just enough information left on it to work it out anyway.

JOHN: But how careless is that?

SHERLOCK: Not careless at all. Clever. _(A disquieting glint springs up in his eyes.)_ _Very_ clever, John. Made to look as if someone was trying to conceal the information, but actually conveying it all the more clearly. There's someone with at least _twice_ John Neligan's IQ at work here. Oh, this case is beginning to be fun. About time, too!

 _He looks as if he can barely restrain himself from rubbing his hands._

JOHN: No, wait. You mean someone tore that label on purpose, but deliberately left enough of the phone number to incriminate MacMillan? Meaning someone wanted MacMillan to take the fall for this, even though he had nothing to do with it?

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

JOHN: But why?

SHERLOCK _(in a thoughtful voice):_ Joseph Bell was wondering the same thing.

 _A pause. Then Sherlock switches the torch off and pockets it. There is just enough light left without it for the two of them to make out each other's faces._

SHERLOCK _(abruptly):_ I don't know why, John. Tell me what _you_ think.

JOHN: Erm - _(Thinking aloud)_ A - a rival company perhaps, trying to discredit the local top dog? Waste disposal is a dirty business, in more than one sense.

SHERLOCK _(evidently unconvinced):_ Possible.

JOHN: Or a political rival?

SHERLOCK: The SNP _has_ no rival in Scotland, John.

JOHN: Someone in his own party, then, trying to stab him in the back?

SHERLOCK _(amused):_ Like the famous Thane of Glamis who wanted to be Thane of Cawdor as well, and got the current one beheaded for high treason so he could take his place? Yes, why not? Of all your unlikely propositions, I think I like that one best.

JOHN: Oh, come on. I've just realised it doesn't even add up.

SHERLOCK: Why not?

JOHN: Remember how you said yourself that they all loved their country so much? Everybody around here's got the love of Scotland in the top spot on their agenda. Who of them would actually go and poison one of the most beautiful parts of it for generations to come, just to secure themselves a little bit of influence over the rest? It makes no sense at all, Sherlock. _(He shakes his head at his friend.)_ I thought we were done with the conspiracy theories. Don't tell me you're back on that track now.

 _Sherlock's expression changes, from amused contempt to bitter earnest. When he speaks, it is in a sternly controlled voice, but with a clear note of anger bubbling below the surface._

SHERLOCK: A man was killed over this, John. Not accidentally poisoned in the course of an ecological disaster, but killed deliberately, in cold blood. A brilliant mind, eliminated, for all we know, just because he stood in the way of someone's greater schemes.

JOHN _(incredulously):_ Christ, you really mean that? _(Sensibly)_ Sherlock, no. Please. I mean, this is nasty enough, but it's just a local toxic waste scandal after all. Engineered by someone insignificant, for some petty reason, commercial or political, but petty all the same. Don't blow this into epic proportions just because -

SHERLOCK _(acidly):_ \- because I can't accept that Joseph Bell could have died for anything less?

JOHN _(urgently, in an almost adjuratory tone):_ Sherlock, it would be god-awful to see this place go to ruin, of course it would. And of course Joseph Bell would have been enraged about it, justly so. But even if it had happened, even if it still happens, it's not - _(He waves his hand, casting around for a sufficiently absurd comparison.)_ It's not like the future of the United Kingdom depended on it, or anything!

 _Sherlock suddenly goes very still, blinks - once, twice. And then his eyelids flutter closed, and we descend into his Mind Palace with him._

 _A picture of a Scottish flag, white St. Andrew's cross on blue, fluttering in the breeze, like Sherlock and John saw it in front of the Visitor Centre at Braemar. Over that image, the voice of MacDee: "A strong, self-governed Scotland…" Then the image of the flag distorts in a swirl of blue colour, and its place is taken by blue steel barrels, all marked with the Hazchem poison label - skull and crossbones. MacDee's voice again: "MacMillan… our next First Minister." Then Sherlock's own voice: "… beheaded for high treason." The barrels dissolve, and in their place, we can see MacDee sitting on his sofa, but both he and the sofa seem to have moved from his living room to the banks of the Allt an t-Slugain. "The referendum is still a couple of years away," MacDee is saying, "but it's going to happen. And I think I can predict what the outcome will be. I truly think we're gearing up for independence." A Union Jack whips across his face then, obscuring it as if to silence him, and his voice fades, until it is no more than a faint echo: "… independence… independence…" Over the Union Jack image, we hear bits of Sherlock and John's conversation on their way to Bell's hut. Sherlock: "- everyone's a member of the SNP...", and John: "- except Constable McGregor and his staunch fellow royalists from Balmoral…" At this, we pull out of the image of the flag, and it is revealed to be the one that flies from the highest tower of Balmoral Castle in its idyllic grounds, looking picture-perfect and beautiful. MacDee's voice over it: "It was the security people from the royal residence who picked him up…", and then the voice of MacDee's wife Cat, with a laugh: "Oh, I see. State secrets." We zoom out of the picture of the castle into an aerial view of it, and then swerve aside as if in a helicopter, across the surrounding countryside, forest, grass and moorland, and then even further up into the bleak hills, faster and faster, as if chasing an invisible prey. The echo of MacDee's voice returns, "… independence… the referendum… independence… ", and then it is replaced by John's, as if in an infinite loop: "The future of the United Kingdom…The future of the United Kingdom…" And as John's voice gets louder and ever more insistent and we are flying at breakneck speed, dipping towards the ground, bound to crash-land any moment, we switch over to Sherlock's real face again, back in the valley of the Allt an t-Slugain, eyes still closed. Then the John voice in Sherlock's head breaks off abruptly, and Sherlock's eyes pop open again, staring into the darkness, straight through the real John._

SHERLOCK: What if it did?

JOHN _(confused):_ What?

 _Sherlock, fully awake and aware of his surroundings again, grabs John by the shoulders._

SHERLOCK _(excitedly):_ John, what if this _was_ all about the future of the United Kingdom? And Bell -

 _He breaks off, and raises his head sharply. John perks up his ears as well, and there it is: a small, rustling noise from a little further down the ravine, as of a person treading carefully through the fallen leaves that cover its bottom. Then there is the sharp crack of a twig breaking under someone's foot. Sherlock and John exchange a wide-eyed look. Then quick as lightning, Sherlock takes John's arm and pulls his friend away from the blue barrels, further upstream. They go to ground behind a fallen pine tree, its upturned rootstock offering just enough cover for both of them. The footsteps come closer, clearly made by more than one person now. Sherlock and John listen intently. John holds up two fingers with a questioning frown. Sherlock shakes his head, and holds up three. Then there is a grating noise from somewhere above them, as of small pieces of rock being dislodged by a foot and rolling down the slope. Sherlock pulls a face, and adds another finger: Four. They turn to peer carefully over the edge of their hiding place, when a loud voice comes out of the darkness, calling in a stern, commanding tone._

MAN'S VOICE: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson! We know you're here. Come out!

 _The voice clearly belongs to an Englishman, not a Scotsman, and very definitely not to MacDee. Sherlock and John exchange another look, John extremely disconcerted, Sherlock intrigued._

MAN'S VOICE: We have no wish to harm you! But it would be unwise of you not to cooperate. Come out, with your hands above your heads, and no one need be hurt!

 _Sherlock smiles a wry smile, but it is wiped from his face when, the next moment, one of their invisible opponents switches on a very strong searchlight. Its beam slices through the darkness like a knife, and fixes itself on the steel barrels by the brook._

SHERLOCK _(in a tense but very low whisper):_ John – put that light out!

 _John frowns, but then slowly and silently produces his gun from the pocket of his jacket. He straightens up just far enough for a covert look over the broken roots of the tree they're hiding behind, and aims his gun at the source of the almost painfully bright light that is still being directed on the barrels, about ten yards to their left. It bobs up and down slightly as the man holding it, himself still invisible, approaches slowly. John grimaces and shifts a little for a better aim, clearly worried about hitting the man instead of the light. He glances at Sherlock next to him, and gives him a doubtful little shake of his head._

SHERLOCK _(mouthing at John, urgently):_ Do it, John!

 _John braces himself, turns back towards the approaching light, takes careful aim again, and stands utterly still for a second or two, holding his gun with both hands. Then he very deliberately releases the safety catch. The little metallic click echoes overloud in the tense silence. The searchlight immediately swerves towards the noise, but the moment it fixes itself on the uprooted tree, a single shot rings out, ripping the stillness of the night apart. Almost simultaneously, there is the clank of shattering glass, a yell from a man – of surprise and anger, but not of agony - and everything goes utterly dark._

SHERLOCK: Run!

 _And the two friends start sprinting up the slope on the eastern side of the ravine, stumbling in the darkness over rocks and fallen branches, concerned only with speed now, no longer with secrecy. Behind and below them, there is some confused shouting, and then the sound of more than one man crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit. Sherlock and John redouble their efforts to climb the slope as quickly as they can, and a moment later, they come out on the ridge. Rain, which the trees kept away from them down in the ravine, starts beating into their faces. John immediately turns left - westward - but Sherlock grabs him by his sleeve and holds him back._

JOHN _(in an undertone):_ What? This way, back to the hut!

SHERLOCK: No, they'll be waiting for us there!

 _He sets off in the opposite direction, across a pathless patch of grassland. John runs after him._

JOHN _(catching up, panting):_ Sherlock! We can't just run into the wilderness!

SHERLOCK: We must! It's the last thing they'll expect us to do!

 _They continue running in the general direction of nowhere, Sherlock on his longer legs in the lead, John close behind him. A strong gust of wind drives them onwards, a tailwind that soaks them with rain from behind, but helps them along all the same. In the distance behind them, little pinpoints of light have sprung up, moving erratically. John looks back over his shoulder, and spots them._

JOHN _(in an exasperated hiss_ ): And you said there was nobody following us!

SHERLOCK: There wasn't! They were waiting for us in the valley!

 _They run on. The ground rises under their feet, and the open grassland gives way to more ragged, rock-strewn ground. Sherlock, wet as a fish already, glances back, but the lights behind them are still there, though further away now. The two friends have to slow down a bit now that they're going steeply upwards. They are both panting for breath now, but they struggle on bravely through the heavy rain. A couple of hundred yards further, steadily uphill, a large cluster of rocks looms out of the darkness, blocking their way. They swerve to the right to avoid it, and a moment later, they both at the same time disappear from sight, as if the earth has swallowed them. Where we saw them last, the ground gives way abruptly, and there is a little cliff there, no more than four or five feet high, but almost vertical. At the bottom, facing north, there is a small dell with patches of snow on the ground, broken only by some small rocky outcrops. Against the white ground, we can see the dark figure of Sherlock, on his hands and knees, just about to push himself to his feet again after his fall. He raises his head and shakes it as if to clear it, spraying water left and right._

SHERLOCK _(breathlessly):_ _That's_ a creag, John. _(He runs his fingers across his forehead, and they come away with a little smear of mixed mud and blood on them. Sherlock grimaces. Then he turns his head to the left to look for his friend.)_ John? _(But there is no John to be seen on that side. Sherlock turns the other way. A little louder, and slightly worried now)_ John?

 _He spots his friend then. John is curled up on the ground close to the rocky cliff, where the snow is already gone. He is obviously alive and conscious, but he is clutching his left knee with both hands and rolling from side to side in the kind of agony that so takes your breath away that you can't even scream. He has his eyes shut and his teeth bared in a grimace of pain, but no sound comes out of his mouth - yet. Sherlock, his own stiffness and soreness forgotten, hurls himself at his friend like a tiger, grabs him, and clamps his hand over John's mouth. Not a moment too soon, because a fraction of a second later, an agonised howl escapes John, three quarters but not completely muffled by Sherlock's hand._

SHERLOCK _(hissing into John's ear):_ Keep quiet, you idiot! They'll hear us!

 _John's cry subsides into a muted whimper. Close up, there are tears in his eyes, and already running down both cheeks, too, mingling with the rain. Sherlock, with his hand still over his friend's mouth, listens intently for their pursuers, but there is nothing to be heard now except the wind, and the constant patter of rain on the rocks, and the pitiful little sounds John is making against Sherlock's hand. Eventually, John lets go of his leg and tears Sherlock's hand away from his lips._

JOHN _(gasping for breath):_ Don't -

 _Sherlock, who was about to renew his hold, desists when he hears John capable of proper speech again._

SHERLOCK _(still in a whisper, but with a grin in it now):_ \- what, stifle you? Sorry. You sounded like you wanted to be put out of your misery. What's wrong?

JOHN: Leg. Knee.

 _He takes a few deliberate deep breaths to calm himself down. Sherlock sits back on his heels, and quickly scans John's legs. John is holding the left one at a rather awkward angle, trying to keep it as still as possible._

JOHN _(through gritted teeth):_ Don't touch it. _(He pauses for breath again.)_ Help me sit up.

 _He struggles into a sitting position. Sherlock moves around him to prop him up with a shoulder behind his back. John leans forward and gently feels his left knee through his wet trousers. He hisses sharply at the touch, then leans back again with a deep sigh. His hands open and close as he struggles to master the pain._

JOHN _(tersely):_ Kneecap's gone.

 _Sherlock looks around as if he expects that part of John's body to lie around somewhere in the snow._

SHERLOCK _(in a rather falsely cheerful voice):_ Can't have gone far though, can it?

JOHN: Shut up, and - _(more deep breaths)_ \- and help me put it back in place. I need - _(He shifts, biting his lip, but then manages to sit up a little straighter, without support now.)_ Roll up the trouser leg as far you can. Carefully.

 _Sherlock gives John a slightly disconcerted glance, but then does as he is told. John braces himself and leans forward to help Sherlock ease the wet, stiff fabric over the injured joint. Immediately, Sherlock freezes, perking up his ears._

JOHN _(in a whisper, alarmed):_ What?

SHERLOCK: John. You're rattling.

JOHN: What? _(With a humourless laugh)_ Yeah, my teeth. Cup of hot tea'd be nice now.

SHERLOCK _(not amused in the least):_ No. This.

 _He unzips the upper half of John's jacket, and digs his hand into its inner pocket. It comes out again holding Constable McGregor's two-way radio. Sherlock tilts it in his hand. There is a small but unmistakeable rattling sound from within it, as of something broken. Sherlock switches it on. No reaction - no light, no sound, nothing to indicate that it could still be alive. Sherlock's eyes travel back from the sad little ruin of the radio in his hand to John's face, and he lets out a long breath. The expression on his face is one of pure reproach._

SHERLOCK: How many years of rugby training, and you still don't know how to fall?

JOHN: _What?_

 _Sherlock, not listening, reaches into his own pocket and produces a Swiss army knife from it, then holds out his other hand to John, not even looking at him._

SHERLOCK: Map.

JOHN _(testily):_ No use. No idea where we are.

SHERLOCK _(rolling his eyes):_ I need the map, John!

 _He all but snaps his fingers, and when John doesn't react, he snatches it out of his friend's pocket himself. He unfolds it half-way, then props it up to stand upright like the roof of a house, providing a little shelter from the rain. Sherlock places the broken radio and the knife in the dry space under it, then takes out the torch, switches it on and hands it to John._

SHERLOCK: Here, hold that for me.

 _John, taken by surprise, automatically receives the torch and shines it under the paper roof. Sherlock selects the smallest blade on the knife, and then, apparently oblivious to the rain still beating down on them both, and certainly oblivious to John's increasing distress, starts using the tip of the blade to loosen the tiny screws at the back of the radio that hold the black plastic casing in place._

JOHN _(in a tone of disbelief):_ You want to repair that? Now?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ I can try, can't I? Or what's Constable McGregor going to say when we give it back like this?

JOHN _(exasperated): S_ omething here needs repairing first, Sherlock! _(Sherlock doesn't react. Enraged)_ Hey! This hurts like _fuck_ , just so you know! Don't you think -

SHERLOCK _(without looking up, working away deftly at the screws):_ Will you be able to walk again when it's back in place?

JOHN _(clenching his teeth again):_ Not far.

SHERLOCK: I thought so. Then the radio's clearly our top priority right now, isn't it?

 _He returns to his task. The back part of the casing comes off, exposing a little labyrinth of coloured wires affixed to a small metal plate. Sherlock puts down the knife and carefully picks a couple of screws and some loose broken pieces of black plastic out of the maze._

JOHN _(desperately)_ : Christ, I can't believe you're just leaving me -

SHERLOCK _(without pausing in his task, in a mock-cheerful tone):_ Not leaving you, John. Not going anywhere until this is fixed.

 _John huffs, making the torch quiver in his hand._

SHERLOCK: And keep that light still.

JOHN _(peevishly):_ Doing my best. _(He sniffs. Bitterly)_ Dose of morphine would help.

SHERLOCK _(tilting the radio sideways and peering into its innards):_ A blowtorch would be better.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ You don't carry one of those around in your pocket?

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Oh, usually I do. Just left it at home today.

 _He looks up very briefly to give John an encouraging grin, but it does little to make John relax. Sherlock works silently on sorting and reassembling wires, and John looks on, cushioning his hurt leg on his free hand as best as he can. The rain is still pattering down, on their backs, on their heads, on the map that serves as a roof. It is already beginning to sag. John, reduced to watching and fighting pain, is looking paler by the minute. Sherlock pauses for a moment to push his wet hair out of his face with his forearm._

JOHN _(in a hopeful tone):_ Done?

SHERLOCK: Not yet.

 _He wipes his wet hands on his coat, blows on his numb fingers and kneads them to get the blood flowing again. Then he nods at the soaked map._

SHERLOCK _(conversationally):_ Did you know these come in laminated rain-proof versions, too?

JOHN _(drily):_ I wonder why.

 _Sherlock lets out a puff of breath that could almost be a laugh, then resumes his work. Almost imperceptibly at first, but then quicker and quicker, the light from the torch fades._

JOHN _(resigned):_ That battery's going, too.

 _He is blinking back tears again now, not just rain._

SHERLOCK: One more minute.

 _It is three or four minutes, however, during which Sherlock manages to connect the loose ends of two wires to their clamp again; then the light is no more than a faint glow. Sherlock lets go of his makeshift tool, fishes his phone out of his pocket, and thrusts it at John._

SHERLOCK: Here. Use that.

 _John puts down the useless torch and fumbles with the buttons of Sherlock's phone, until the little built-in light comes on – ridiculously small, by comparison, but still better than nothing. As he directs it under the shelter of the map, it is quivering again, and this time the quivering doesn't stop. Sherlock's brow furrows in irritation._

SHERLOCK: I thought I told you to keep it -

JOHN _(in a very strained voice):_ Yeah, I know, it's -

 _Sherlock looks up at John's suddenly rather pitiful tone. John's teeth have started chattering in earnest, and in the tiny circle of light, his wet face is ghostly white - apart from the lips, which are slowly turning blue. His hand holding the phone is trembling uncontrollably now, and so is the rest of him._

SHERLOCK _(in a gentler tone):_ Put it down, John. Prop it up against that rock, and just hold your hand over it so it doesn't drown too soon. One more wire to reconnect, and we're there.

 _John nods bravely, lips pressed tightly together, and does as instructed. Sherlock returns his attention to the radio. He blows on his fingers again, then with greatest care digs the tip of the blade under a red wire to disentangle it from the others._

SHERLOCK: I just need to -

 _He narrows his eyes in concentration, and carefully loosens the trapped wire, a fraction of an inch, then another - and then it snaps. For a moment, Sherlock just stares at the frayed copper end that is dangling sadly over the rim of the casing. Then he curses under his breath, and lets both the radio and his tool sink down. When he glances across at John, there is an expression of undisguised despair on his face. John, however, is not looking at his friend at all. He is still shivering from head to foot, but his eyes are focussed on the screen of Sherlock's phone._

JOHN: Sherlock -

 _He looks up. Sherlock wipes his face blank just in time, but he can no longer manage anything cheerful or encouraging._

SHERLOCK _(wearily):_ What?

JOHN: There's a signal on your phone now. It kind of comes and goes, but it's there.

 _He smiles, and holds the phone out to Sherlock. Sherlock grabs it, checks the screen, and a triumphant grin lights up his face._

SHERLOCK: Good. _Very_ good.

 _He rises to his feet – not quite with his accustomed ease, but close enough - and holds the phone up experimentally, turning on the spot. Then he nods, looking very content._

SHERLOCK: A little higher up, and we'll be fine. ( _He pockets the phone, and squats down again at John's side.)_ Right. Tell me what to do.

JOHN _(in a very half-hearted attempt at joking):_ Oh, new priorities now? I'm flattered.

 _Sherlock doesn't waste time replying. Together, they manage to peel John's trouser leg up and over the injured knee, inch by inch. The joint looks unusually flat in the middle, but on its outer side, it has acquired an impressive new knob - the dislocated kneecap, slipped sideways under the skin. Sherlock grimaces._

SHERLOCK _(doubtfully):_ You sure you can -

JOHN _(firmly):_ 'Course I can. Done this a dozen times before. _(With a surprising surge of energy, he sits up straight, and wipes his face on his sleeve.)_ Right, put your hands on the inside of my leg. One just above the knee, one below. Here. _(He guides Sherlock's hands to the right places.)_ When I give the word, push outwards, against me. I'll need that leverage to slip the patella back into place. Make sure you don't let go. The leg will try and escape. _(Sherlock nods. John makes another brave effort to grin.)_ If I scream, don't listen. You're not allowed to let go. Not even if I throw up on your coat. Can _you_ do that?

 _Sherlock merely nods again, as if not quite trusting himself to speak. He looks almost paler than John himself now. John clenches his teeth, and stretches out his leg as far as he can. He flexes his fingers, then lets them hover above his damaged knee, right over the unsightly knob. His tongue flicks along his upper lip._

JOHN: Ready?

SHERLOCK _(tightening his hold):_ Ready.

 _John clamps both his hands down on the knob, one above the other, and pushes it inwards. His whole body contorts in protest, his leg makes an attempt to jerk upwards and outwards, but Sherlock holds it down. John's lips part in a snarl, and a strange, high-pitched, very un-John noise escapes him, but he doesn't let go either, and with a sickening crunch, the patella slips back into its usual place in the centre of the knee joint._

JOHN _(in a breathy, thin voice):_ Done.

 _And Sherlock manages to catch him only just in time as he keels over backwards, knocked flat by both the extreme pain of the reduction and the intense relief afterwards. Sherlock lowers him carefully onto the ground. There is a silence while John, with his eyes closed and an arm across his sweaty forehead, is getting his breath back, and Sherlock watches him recover._

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ And you've really done that a dozen times before?

JOHN: Not on myself, dolt. _(He opens one eye, and smiles.)_ Good grip, you.

SHERLOCK _(nodding at the failed radio repair):_ But rubbish fine motor skills.

JOHN: Yeah. At least half a year behind the stat – statist -

 _His teeth have started chattering again._

SHERLOCK: Can't have everything. An accident, _and_ a means to call help? That's for the weak.

 _They chuckle quietly, both of them far too cold and too exhausted for a proper laugh. Then John makes a random little gesture with his arm._

JOHN: Right, be off.

SHERLOCK _(surprised):_ What?

JOHN: Uphill. Somewhere with a good signal. Go get help.

SHERLOCK _(indignantly):_ What, and then come crawling back down here, and grope about the hillside in the dark and the rain for _hours_ til I find you again? _(He sniffs loudly.)_ No, thank you.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Half an hour later,**_ _the wind has risen, and it has torn the clouds apart enough for the half-moon to peek through the gaps. It faintly illuminates a bare, steep, rocky hillside, leading up to one of the lower summits in the southern ranges of the Cairngorms. The hilltop itself is covered with a blanket of snow, but here on the southern approach, the snow has mostly melted away, leaving the ground wet and slippery, but at least unfrozen. A large, rather ungainly dark shape is moving uphill, very slowly, crawling at a snail's pace. It slips sometimes, and catches itself just in time; it pauses occasionally, but then determinedly moves on again; and on closer inspection, it is revealed to be Sherlock, carrying John bodily up the hill on his back. The rain has stopped, but that is the only good thing that can be said about the situation. John, soaked to the skin, is clinging to his friend with his eyes closed, his arms around Sherlock's neck, numb fingers clawing at the wet fabric of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock himself is just as drenched as John. His feet and legs are caked with mud up to his knees, and he puffs out a heavy breath with every slow step he takes. His eyes are on the treacherous ground as he advances, on and on through the darkness, up and up and up. But after a few minutes, he halts again, and raises his eyes to the summit of the hill, standing out clearly against the moonlit night sky, not so far away any more._

SHERLOCK _(in a low voice):_ John? Can you reach my phone?

 _John makes a small, wordless noise, and then a sudden, ineffective move with his arm, almost throwing his friend off-balance. Sherlock grimaces._

SHERLOCK: No, stop it. Bad idea.

He carefully shifts the weight on his back. John tightens his hold convulsively, and Sherlock manages to fish out his phone from his coat pocket without dropping John. The light on the screen comes on, and illuminates his drawn, dog-tired face. But what he sees on the screen makes him nod with satisfaction.

SHERLOCK: John, we're here. No need to go higher.

 _He goes down on his knees, and carefully lowers John onto the ground, on the side of his good leg. All the same, John hisses with pain at the movement, then opens his eyes._

JOHN _(with a groan):_ Sorry. I'm sorry _._

SHERLOCK: Yeah, you _could_ do with a few pounds less. Remind Mrs Hudson to go a bit easier on the butter and the cream in her cakes, when we get back home.

 _John makes a noise that could be a laugh, if he was still capable of such a thing. Sherlock gives him a quick smile, then turns his attention on his phone. With fingers still trembling from the cold and the strain of the climb, he selects a number from his contacts, and switches the loudspeaker on so John can hear, too. The call connects without trouble. The person at the other end picks it up right after the first ring, and starts speaking immediately, without even waiting for Sherlock to identify himself._

MACDEE'S VOICE _(over the phone):_ Bloody hell, Sherlock! What do you think you're doing!

 _But he sounds relieved rather than angry – enormously relieved, in fact, and not hostile at all._

SHERLOCK: Solving your case for you, Detective Inspector. You got yourself into rather deep water there, as you probably know by now.

 _There is a crackle of static in the line, and then another voice speaks up – a very familiar voice, smooth and superior and imperturbably calm. John's eyes go wide in astonishment, but Sherlock doesn't seem surprised in the least to hear it._

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(over the phone):_ Hello, Captain Ahab. Talking of deep water, how are things going at your end? Ship sunk, crew drowned, but still fast to the whale?

 _Sherlock's tired face hardens into stone at Mycroft's words, and he spits out his answer with even more than the usual venom that he reserves exclusively for his brother._

SHERLOCK: Holding faster than ever, Mycroft. And saving my last harpoon for the moment it resurfaces.

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(smugly):_ Oh, I'd love to be there to see that.

SHERLOCK: I'm sure you would. And now get out of the line, I want to talk to MacDee.

MACDEE'S VOICE _(a little apologetically):_ No, it's alright, Sherlock – he's not in the line, he's, erm – he's actually sitting here next to me.

SHERLOCK _(still completely unsurprised):_ Oh, good! Tell him to make himself useful, then. John's out of action, and would appreciate a lift to somewhere dry, warm and with an X-ray machine. No need to dawdle, either.

MACDEE'S VOICE _(soberly):_ Right. Where exactly are you now?

 _In the background, we can already hear the clicking of computer keys._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ John, where are we?

JOHN _(in a faint voice):_ Somewhere unpronounceable. Tell them to trace the phone.

 _Sherlock rolls his eyes and drags the sorry remnants of the soaked Landranger map from his coat pocket._

SHERLOCK _(sternly):_ John, this is your domain. Stop malingering, and work it out.

 _John closes his eyes, too far gone to argue. When he opens them again, Sherlock has already unfolded the map. It is coming apart in several places along the folds now, but otherwise, it is still holding together remarkably. They put their heads together over it._

JOHN _(hesitantly, squinting at the print in the faint light from the screen of the phone):_ I'd say we're – we're on the _(atrociously mispronouncing the name)_ Crag – an – Dial – no, Dail -

MACDEE'S VOICE _(effortlessly):_ Creag an Dail Mhor?

JOHN: Yeah, sounds good.

MACDEE'S VOICE: Where exactly?

JOHN: Southern slope.

MACDEE'S VOICE: How far up, would you say?

SHERLOCK _(into the phone, impatiently):_ Oh, come on! Surely your helicopters are all fitted with infrared cameras?

MACDEE'S VOICE: Erm – we don't _have_ a helicopter, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(incredulously):_ _What?_

MACDEE'S VOICE _(sounding apologetic again):_ We usually borrow the one from Strathclyde when we need one, but that's a little too far away right now, I suppose... _(The sound of more typing.)_ Yep, and it's just gone out to one of the Isles on something or other anyway.

 _Sherlock rolls his eyes at the heavens, as if unable to fathom how people in Scotland survive in such antediluvian conditions._

MACDEE'S VOICE _(as if he saw it, in a reassuring tone):_ Hang in there, we'll find you one.

SHERLOCK: Air ambulance?

MACDEE'S VOICE: Taking a stroke down to Edinburgh right now. Back in an hour though.

 _Sherlock opens his mouth as if he means to start pouring abuse on this new example of sub-standard emergency infrastructure, but Mycroft forestalls him._

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(in the background_ ): Try RAF Lossiemouth.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ Yeah, do. They've got to be good for _something._

 _More typing, and silence for at least a full minute. Sherlock is angrily chewing the insides of his cheeks, casting a somewhat anxious look at John now and again. John is hunched on the ground, his head nodding, his eyes closed, and seems to have lost all interest in the conversation. A moment later, MacDee's voice comes on again._

MACDEE'S VOICE _(regretfully):_ Lossiemouth's got no permission for take-off, on account of -

SHERLOCK _(in a sudden furious outburst_ ): - the fog, I know! God, this is impossible! _(Imperiously)_ Mycroft!

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(calmly):_ Yes, still here.

SHERLOCK: I thought you ran this country!

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(in a dignified tone):_ I do!

SHERLOCK _(still louder, practically shouting into the phone):_ Then run it _better_ , for God's sake!

 _There is a ringing silence for a few seconds, then MacDee's voice is back._

MACDEE'S VOICE _(excitedly):_ Here, maybe - the radar control centre down at the harbour can see one coming in from the sea right now, from an oil rig probably. That means it's a private charter, but -

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(in a tone of authority):_ Commandeer it.

SHERLOCK _(with a glance at John's very still face):_ And get a paramedic on board.

 _At the other end of the phone line, a flurry of activity breaks out. Mycroft's voice can be heard in the background, talking on another line now, snapping out orders in a crisp tone. MacDee is also talking, probably giving instructions to colleagues of his. There are repeated beeps as of radio conversations, too. Then MacDee's voice is back, a little breathless but triumphant nonetheless._

MACDEE'S VOICE: They'll be there in twenty minutes, alright?

SHERLOCK _(snappishly):_ Make it fifteen.

 _And he hangs up._

* * *

 _ **An aerial view of the slopes of the Creag an Dail Mhor,**_ _bathed in moonlight. As we zoom in on the dark and quiet landscape, we can hear Sherlock's voice over it, very urgently and insistently._

SHERLOCK'S VOICE: And what happened then? _(A pause.)_ John? What happened then? Tell me, I want to know.

JOHN'S VOICE _(wearily):_ Oh… mum wasn't happy, of course. She banned Harry and me from watching TV for a week, I think…

 _Another pause, while we swerve a little to the left, along the southern flank of the hill, and descend towards the rocky ground._

SHERLOCK'S VOICE: Really? A whole week? _(No reply.)_ John?

 _In the shelter provided by two massive boulders of rock that lean against each other, two dark figures huddle on the ground, one sitting upright, the other lying on his side, with his head and shoulders resting in the other's lap. The sitting one - Sherlock - has opened his coat, and has draped one half of it over John._

JOHN _(turning his head sideways so he can look up into Sherlock's face, in a stronger voice again):_ I know exactly why you're doing this, Sherlock. It's fine to keep me talking, you know. But can we please change the subject now?

SHERLOCK: No, we can't.

JOHN: Why not?

SHERLOCK: Because embarrassment is the most effective emotion if you want to keep your circulation and your blood pressure at a proper level.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: You're hypothermic, John. Your breathing is slow and shallow, your pulse has weakened perceptibly over the last ten minutes, you currently show an even more marked lack of coordination than usual –

JOHN _(exasperated):_ I've barely moved for the last ten minutes! How can you tell that –

SHERLOCK _(not listening):_ \- and you're highly irritable, which usually occurs shortly before passing into the near-unresponsive stage.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ Oh, listen to the expert. Is all this part of some secret plan of yours, too, that you've researched it so thoroughly?

SHERLOCK: Of course. I've always wanted an excuse to practise a proper sternal rub on someone.

 _He raises his hand as if for an immediate demonstration of his skills in that department. John's arm comes up in response, slightly sluggishly but still functioning, as if to bat away any such attempt._

JOHN: Don't you dare!

 _Sherlock just grins, looking very satisfied._

SHERLOCK: You keep doing that til they're here, and you're safe. Speaking of which -

 _There is a noise on the air now, as of a powerful engine, getting progressively louder. Sherlock and John, from their place on the ground, both look up at the sky, and a moment later, a large helicopter comes roaring around the flank of the hill, all its lights on, and makes straight for the spot where the two men are waiting. Sherlock straightens up, hooks his hands under John's arms, and pulls his friend upright to sit with his back propped against the rock. The noise from the engine reaches ear-splitting levels as the helicopter, unable to land on the steep slope, descends as far as it safely can. It hovers on the spot, directly above them, their wet hair and their sodden clothes whipping about them in the sudden strong wind from the rotor blades. John, roused by the noise and the sharp gusts of wind against his skin, closes his eyes for a moment in a wordless prayer of gratitude. Then they watch as the side door of the helicopter - with the logo of a well-known oil company on it - slides open, and two men peer out. One is in the bright red overalls of a paramedic, the other is Mycroft Holmes, in a three piece suit even now. The paramedic immediately starts operating a winch and lets down a harness, affixed to a stout rope, while the pilot keeps the helicopter skilfully in place. When the harness has descended far enough, Sherlock grabs it and pulls it down towards them._

SHERLOCK _(into John's ear, his voice raised to carry over the deafening roar of the engine):_ Right, you go first!

 _Sherlock busies himself with unhooking and disentangling the straps of the harness. Then he puts it on John, exchanging a look with the paramedic to make sure he's doing it the right way. Mycroft, who is watching them rather anxiously, is being ignored. When John is properly strapped in, the paramedic gives them the thumbs up, and puts his hand on the winch control again. At the last moment, Sherlock takes the sodden Landranger map from his coat, and shoves it into John's pocket._

SHERLOCK _:_ Here, take good care of that. MacDee will need it. _(John nods. Then Sherlock takes out his phone as well, and pushes it into John's hand.)_ And hold that for me, too, will you? _(And before John can respond - )_ Ready, then? Up you go.  
 _  
He signals to the paramedic, and John is lifted right off the ground and up through the air towards the door of the helicopter. Sherlock does not take his eyes off his friend until John is all the way up, and the paramedic and Mycroft have taken him under his arms and pulled him inside into the safety of the aircraft. They lower him carefully onto the seat nearest the door. Mycroft deftly undoes the buckles of the harness, and the paramedic receives it back to lower it to Sherlock while Mycroft secures John in his seat with the seatbelt. But Sherlock, even when the harness is dangling within easy reach again, makes no move to take it and put it on. He merely stands there, with his face turned up towards the open door of the helicopter and his hair and his coat tails flapping about him. And now his eyes are on his brother, and on his brother alone, intently, almost feverishly, oblivious to the noise and the cold and everything else around him. The change from the busy activity of seeing John off safely to his utter stillness now has something eerie about it, like the quiet before a storm. Mycroft leans down, and shouts to make himself heard._

MYCROFT: Sherlock! What are you waiting for? Put it on!

 _He gives John a questioning look, but John, slumped in his seat and already covered with a blanket, just shakes his head, looking puzzled._

MYCROFT _(turning back to his brother):_ Don't be an idiot! Put it on, and let's go!

 _Now Sherlock comes to life again. He shouts back, his pale eyes suddenly blazing with anger and defiance._

SHERLOCK: What, with you? With you, Mycroft, who wishes me no harm, but only if I'm wise enough to cooperate?

 _John, hearing - and recognising - the words, stares at Mycroft, wide-eyed. Mycroft gives John a humourless smile, then turns back to Sherlock._

MYCROFT _(shouting down):_ Sherlock, this isn't the time! Come on board, and leave the -

SHERLOCK _(furiously):_ No, Mycroft! No! _(He stabs an accusing finger in Mycroft's direction.)_ I couldn't care less, just so you know, whether Scotland is ruled from Edinburgh, from London or by little green men from planet Mars! _(Even louder)_ But I do care when people start dying over that question on _your_ orders!

JOHN _(trying to lean forward towards the open door, incredulously):_ What? Sherlock! What are you -

 _But Sherlock, on the ground, seems determined to continue his tirade at the top of his voice for as long as he has any breath left. His hand clenches into a fist, his whole body shaking with rage._

SHERLOCK: Unwise, Mycroft? Maybe! But if you thought you were going to get away with it, think again! _(Now he does make a grab for the harness, but only to unhook it from its rope. He flings it aside contemptuously, then resumes shouting at his brother.)_ You can take John away now and try and repair that damage at least, but _(still louder_ ) I will _not_ , Mycroft _,_ not in a _million_ years, owe even so much as a pair of warm feet to a _murderer!_

 _On the last word, his voice cracks, turning the accusation into a shrill scream of pure hatred. And then something more than Sherlock's voice cracks, too, his flushed face contorts in a grimace, and he abruptly turns his back on his brother and his companions in the helicopter, averting his face from them just in time before the tears that he has held back for weeks start pouring from his eyes at last, and run down his grubby cheeks._

 _Up in the helicopter, there is a moment of stunned silence. Then Mycroft shrugs, and pushes himself away from the door and back into his own seat, ready for departure. John gapes at him._

JOHN: _What?_ You can't - _(Enraged)_ Mycroft! You can't just leave him out here! He's gone out of his mind!

MYCROFT _(fastening his own seatbelt, calmly):_ Do you think so?

JOHN: He just called _you_ a murderer!

MYCROFT _(wearily):_ Yes, well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I can see where he's coming from. _(He picks up the headphones dangling next to his seat, and nods to the paramedic to slide the door shut. Then he turns back to John, his face a mask.)_ You know what he's like, John. When he wants to be left alone, leave him alone. _(He puts the headphones on and adjusts the microphone. To the pilot)_ Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, please.

 _The pilot can be seen to nod, and the helicopter goes into translational lift, quickly gaining height. Then the aircraft swerves and turns in a graceful curve to head due east, back to Aberdeen. For a moment John, looking out of the window with tears of his own filling his eyes, can still see the unmoving dark figure of Sherlock below them, slumped on the ground now, with his face buried in his arms - a pitiful little heap of misery, all the fury of a moment ago turned into bleak, cold despair. But it dwindles fast, and very soon, the darkness swallows it completely._


	11. Chapter 11

**_The Macdonalds' living room in Aberdeen._** _It is night time, but all the lights in the room are on, and so is the gas fire in front of the boarded-up fireplace. Someone has pushed the clutter of children's toys aside on the carpet to make a lane from the door to the corner with the sofas and armchairs. The decorations from last week's birthday party are still in place. The only new addition to the furniture is a drying rack, one half of it occupied by tea towels and toddlers' bibs, the other half by the damp remains of Joseph Bell's Landranger map, carefully secured with clothes-pegs._

 _On the larger sofa, John is sitting, with his bad leg propped up on the coffee table, comfortably cushioned. The leg of his jeans is rolled up, revealing a neat brace that encases his injured knee. His hair is dry, and he is in dry clothes, too – a fresh shirt, and the woollen oatmeal jumper over it. His face is grey with fatigue, but it has lost the blueish pallor of hypothermia. In fact, he looks a lot better already than he himself would probably have predicted, after his ordeal in the hills. Both a mug of tea and a tumbler of whisky are within reach on the table in front of him. He has a thick folder on his lap, and is flicking through it._

 _In the armchair at right angles to John sits Mycroft, still in the same suit that he wore to John and Sherlock's - only partially successful - rescue. He has his chin propped on his folded hands and is staring thoughtfully into the fire. If he has been offered anything to drink, he has declined it._

 _After a moment, John, turning pages, reaches a section of the file with photographs in it. He pulls a face, turns another page, then grimaces even more strongly. Mycroft glances across at him over his folded hands. He is outwardly calm, but his hunched shoulders betray his tension and his discomfort. John looks up._

JOHN _(grimly):_ Don't let him see those pictures. Ever. He'll strangle you with his bare hands.

 _Mycroft smiles humourlessly._

MYCROFT: I've had two full weeks to prepare myself mentally for that eventuality, John. But thank you anyway for the warning.

 _John snorts, and slowly works his way back through the pictures of the crime scene. He tilts the folder to make them catch the light better._

JOHN: Yep, that is chloracne all right. At least when you know what to look for. _(Looking across at Mycroft again)_ So that's why the autopsy report is missing?

 _Mycroft shrugs, but doesn't deny it. John shakes his head, and goes back to his reading, shifting his hurting leg with a low groan. Mycroft regards him with an unreadable expression, his lips pressed tightly together. Then suddenly, there are footsteps outside, the door to the room opens, and there stands MacDee, his phone in his hand, deep dark rings under his eyes but a happy smile on his face. John and Mycroft both look up immediately, and both their faces brighten even before MacDee can speak._

MACDEE: We've got him. _(To Mycroft)_ I think you can stand your people down now, and return the helicopter, too. I've already called back my men, and the mountain rescue volunteers.

 _Mycroft nods appreciatively, and takes out his phone._

JOHN _(putting the file aside):_ Where is he now?

MACDEE _(smiling again):_ In good hands, John. A sheep farmer in the lower Glen an t-Slugain has just been knocked up by an unexpected late-night visitor, who looked somewhat the worse for wear but asked very politely for a lift back to Braemar. The man called 999 instead, of course. Constable McGregor is on his way up there right now. They'll be here in an hour.

 _John heaves a huge sigh of relief._

* * *

 ** _An hour later._** _It is still night - the quieter half of it now, after midnight, with no traffic on the roads and complete stillness in the house. Mycroft is on his feet by the window, with his back to the room, talking quietly into his phone. John is still on the sofa, with MacDee sitting next to him now. They're looking through the case file together, John pointing at pictures, MacDee nodding._

MACDEE _(amazed):_ And Sherlock got it just from those papers in Bell's hut that he must have got exposed to dioxin?

JOHN: Yes, and from the fact that he didn't want to see Alan Gilroy. Or rather didn't want Gilroy to see him.

MACDEE: I was wondering about that at the time, you know. Gilroy made such a point of being worried about that cancelled appointment, but when I asked him what exactly it was meant to be about, he said he didn't know himself. I found that suspicious, I admit. _(He blushes.)_ Gilroy was actually my prime suspect, until Neligan got caught and confessed. I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something Gilroy wasn't telling me.

JOHN: You didn't tell us that, last night.

MACDEE _(guiltily):_ I know. But once we had Neligan, I just figured that I'd been seeing things, and kind of forgot about it.

 _John nods. MacDee turns another page or two of the file, and jerks his chin at another picture._

MACDEE: And that notebook. _(He shakes his head.)_ Birds' eggs in February. How could I not see that?

JOHN _(sympathetically):_ I know. It always seems so simple, afterwards.

 _They exchange a long-suffering look._

MACDEE _(closing the file and putting it down on the table):_ And so someone killed Bell for finding out about the dioxin? _(John nods.)_ But we still don't know who that someone is?

JOHN _(raising his eyes to look across at Mycroft, grimly):_ At least we know now why we don't know.

 _MacDee follows John's eyes, and raises his eyebrows in an eloquent manner._

MACDEE _(under his breath):_ But _he_ can't or won't rat on them?

JOHN _(with very little warmth in his voice):_ Let's hope it's just that.

 _There is an uncomfortable silence._

MACDEE _(awkwardly):_ So - _(He nods at John's knee.)_ How's it feeling now?

JOHN: Better. Going by the x-ray, I was lucky. So fine, yeah.

 _He takes a sip of his tea, then a sip of his whisky, and falls back into a gloomy silence, his brows drawn together._

MACDEE _(in an encouraging tone):_ He'll be fine, too, John.

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ I wish I could be sure. _(Managing a weak smile)_ Thank you, though. For looking after us, I mean.

MACDEE _(chuckling quietly):_ Pure self-preservation. Greg would have my hide. _(John smiles, a true smile this time.)_ But you did give me a fright, when you didn't come back from Ben Avon all day, and I called and they told me you'd never even been there. Your phones were forever "currently unavailable", and then _he (jerking his head at Mycroft, who has finished speaking but is now typing on his phone)_ turned up on my doorstep. I wonder who will be next?

JOHN _(glancing at his watch):_ McGregor and his charge, I hope. _(With a faint grin)_ He'll be gloating that we needed a mountain rescue after all. Just what he was expecting.

MACDEE: Yeah, by the way – I could just have asked him to let you have the keys, no trouble.

 _John nods again, but he is avoiding MacDee's eyes this time. Mycroft half-turns and shoots John a quick glance. His lip curls in a knowing little smile, but MacDee misses it, because right at this moment, there is the sound of a car approaching and then stopping in the street outside, followed by a knock on the front door of the house. MacDee jumps up and hurries to open it. John - perforce - and Mycroft - by choice - stay where they are, but both their faces turn expectantly towards the door. There is the sound of footsteps in the hall, and then Sherlock and Constable McGregor, with MacDee behind them, appear in the open door of the living room._

 _Sherlock looks, there is no other word for it, like death warmed over. He seems to have been given a towel somewhere along his way back here to provisionally dry his face and his hair, making the latter stand on end. He has a borrowed high-vis police jacket draped over his shoulders in place of his coat, but the rest of him is still sopping wet, and splashed with mud all over - jacket, shirt, scarf, trousers, everything right down to his bare feet. He is carrying his shoes - or rather their barely recognisable ruins - in his hand. His face is ghost-like, so pale that the skin looks translucent, and his eyes, blinking into the bright light of the living room, are red and puffy like a rabbit's._

 _There is a moment of utter silence while both John and Mycroft stare at the pitiful figure of their friend and brother, and Sherlock seems to be looking everywhere in the room except at them. Then Constable McGregor, who looks more amused than anything, breaks it by patting Sherlock on the back with his big hand, almost making his knees buckle._

McGREGOR _(jovially):_ Well, here we are then. Not quite the airport, nor your London office, but close enough, I s'pose. _(He chuckles. To John)_ Didn't I tell you not to underestimate the Cairngorms? _(He jerks his head at Sherlock)_ But he wouldn't listen, would he? Never does, I'm guessing. Well. He was lucky though that Farmer Ross grabbed his phone and not his shotgun when he came knocking. _(Chuckling again)_ Ross and his wife thought that Ben Avon must be missing another patient, and that he was standing right on their doorstep.

MYCROFT _(in a deceptively conversational tone):_ Interesting, Constable. How did you convince them that it wasn't the case?

McGREGOR _(with an amused look at John):_ Told them they didn't come in pairs. Nor in Audi TTs neither. _(Turning back to MacDee, in a more official tone)_ Right, sir, I s'pose I'm done here?

MACDEE: Yes, thank you, McGregor. I'll be in touch tomorrow.

 _Sherlock, who has listened to the entire exchange with a blank expression, as if it went right over his head, now comes to life, and shrugs out of McGregor's jacket. He hands it to the policeman with a nod of thanks, and McGregor responds with an indulgent, almost paternal smile. Then the constable nods to John and Mycroft, formally salutes MacDee, and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. When he is gone, Mycroft clears his throat, and asks the only question that really matters at this moment._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ Where's your coat?

 _Sherlock raises his head and meets his brother's eyes. His brow furrows, as if it costs him a great effort to process the question and arrive at the correct answer. Then he snaps out a single word._

SHERLOCK: Wet.

 _He lets go of the muddy shoes he has been holding, and they crash to the floor, coming to rest with their undersides turned up to the light. Both soles are completely worn through, with a gaping hole in each. And then Sherlock's knees buckle in earnest, and MacDee's quick strong arms around him are the only things that keep him from joining his shoes on the carpet._


	12. Chapter 12

_**Later on the same night.**_ _Sherlock has taken – or been put into - the armchair directly opposite Mycroft's. He is in a dry shirt and dry pair of trousers now, too, and still not wearing any shoes, but his feet are clean, and neatly bandaged. There is also already a touch of colour on his cheeks again. John, back on the sofa with his leg up, is in the process of repacking a first aid kit. The Holmes brothers seem to be in silent accord to keep truce while the technical preliminaries are being completed. But they sit with their eyes fixed on each other, and with little regard for anyone or anything else in the room. MacDee, who was absent until now, comes back in from the kitchen carrying another mug of tea. The draft from the open door makes the colourful balloons and the paper streamers from Ewan's birthday party quiver above their heads. MacDee places the mug in front of Sherlock, then returns to his place on the sofa next to John. John puts the little green bag down, and leans back. For a moment, nobody says a word. Then Mycroft speaks up, addressing his brother._

MYCROFT: Well, you said you still had a harpoon to cast, Sherlock. I suggest you do it now, before that vicious white whale you've been hunting so relentlessly dives down again, and is lost from sight forever. _(Drily)_ And before you fall asleep where you sit, too.

JOHN _(reprovingly):_ Mycroft, really - can't we just -

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ No, it's alright. _(His voice is a little hoarse, but his tone is as confident as ever. With a cynical smile)_ Mycroft said he'd love to be there when it hits home, so we're not going to cheat him out of that now, are we?

MYCROFT: How kind. Well, then don't disappoint me by missing your mark.

SHERLOCK: Not likely. I think I won't even need John and MacDee to hold you in place.

 _John and MacDee exchange a look, John apprehensive, MacDee plainly astonished._

MACDEE _(to Sherlock, incredulously):_ Are you – are you really saying that your _brother_ had Joseph Bell killed?

SHERLOCK _(with utter conviction):_ Yes. Of course.

 _There is a tense silence. The truce is clearly over, war is declared, and the two brothers are assessing each other with narrowed eyes now, like two opponents before a fencing match. Then Mycroft crosses his arms._

MYCROFT: Close, Sherlock. But no.

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully):_ Oh, really _? (He points an accusing finger at his brother. Very sharply)_ Who else would come up with such a devious plot to dump the blame for Joseph Bell's murder on a dimwit who couldn't stand up for himself, and in whose defence no one else would lift a finger, either? And who else would devise such clever ways to silence the only two men who were in the position to cast doubt on Neligan's guilt? This case had your signature all over it, right from the start. _(He nods at the police file that is still on the coffee table.)_ And I'm sure that bears clear signs of your censorship, too.

JOHN: The autopsy report's gone.

SHERLOCK: Just so. _(To Mycroft)_ So don't waste your breath denying it.

MYCROFT _(after a moment, calmly):_ Purely as a matter of interest, how long have you known?

MACDEE _(under his breath):_ God, _no_.

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, with a bitter look at John's injured leg):_ Not nearly long enough. But I should have seen it already when you were so nice to me about getting us into Baskerville last week. You were relieved then, weren't you, that I was working so intently on another case. Taking my mind off things, maybe forgetting about Joseph Bell and the mystery surrounding his death altogether… So you did everything you could to help me along, and to make that one a success. But once it was over and there was no other new case on the horizon, you no longer trusted me to remain quite so pliable, did you? So when we came back from Dartmoor, you lost no time enlisting John's help to keep me out of _this_ one once and for all.

JOHN _(surprised): My_ help?

 _Sherlock gives him a humourless smile. John frowns, but then, as the pieces click into place, he abruptly turns to Mycroft, glaring at him._

JOHN _(to Mycroft, accusingly):_ You said you were _worried_ about him!

MYCROFT _(indignantly):_ I was!

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, grimly):_ Though a lot less worried than you were about yourself, and about your cronies on location here in Scotland. Of course, John being who he is, you wouldn't have got far if you'd told him outright that there was something you didn't want me to touch, and that he was supposed to stop me if I tried. But you told John to watch out for any conspicuous emotional involvement on my part in any of our upcoming cases, and you made sure he'd take that for a bad sign, requiring intervention. _(Disdainfully)_ And you knew that if you wrapped that request in the guise of brotherly concern, then John would play along in happy ignorance, thinking he was doing _me_ a favour, rather than you.

 _John has followed Sherlock's words with growing unrest. Mycroft, seeing it, now addresses him in an almost appeasing tone._

MYCROFT: John, I -

SHERLOCK _(cutting him off):_ But it didn't work, did it? On the contrary. John, by insisting so very firmly that I wasn't allowed to believe in any monstrous conspiracy theories, did justice to his accustomed and admirable capacity of providing a light in the darkness without ever being aware of it himself, and put me straight on the right track. _(To John, wryly)_ So don't feel too bad about this, John. You gave me a major piece of the puzzle when you told me how my dear brother was _worrying_. _(He forces out the last word with distaste. To Mycroft)_ I admit it gives me a certain satisfaction to think how you must have panicked, Mycroft, when you realised that we were indeed on our way straight into the hills, straight into the heart of the mystery, in spite of all your carefully devised smoke screens. That was when you decided not to leave it to John to drag me back, wasn't it, but to deploy your henchmen after us, and to place them in wait at the very end of the road, just in case we'd really make it there.

JOHN _(abruptly):_ That voice back in the valley. The man who told us to surrender _. (To Sherlock)_ I knew I'd heard it before. There was no time to tell you, and afterwards I forgot, but -

MYCROFT _(to John, evenly):_ \- but now you remember that the same voice had invited you on a trip through Central London with me, only a few days before? Yes. I was hoping that you'd recognise it, John, and remember that this was someone you could trust _. (Disapprovingly)_ But apparently it did nothing to keep your finger off the trigger. Should I congratulate you that there was no worse damage done than a bit of broken glass?

 _A flush, both of fury and of guilt, rises into John's face, but it is Sherlock who makes himself heard first._

SHERLOCK _(very loudly, in a voice ringing with indignation):_ You congratulate John from the bottom of your heart, Mycroft, and maybe take a leaf out of his book, too, next time you're about to shed an innocent man's blood for the good of the state!

 _MacDee, who has followed their exchange with mounting impatience, now reaches the end of his tether._

MACDEE: Alright, someone needs to spell this out for me. _(Nodding his head at Mycroft, in a tone of almost comical confusion)_ Do I arrest _him_ now, or what?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Yeah, why not? That would be a first, I think. Could be fun.

MYCROFT _(sharply):_ Sherlock, I told you, you've got that bit wrong.

SHERLOCK _(to MacDee):_ And you'd better get out the handcuffs, too. Sounds like he might try resisting.

JOHN _(quietly):_ Sherlock.

 _For a moment, the Holmes brothers look daggers at each other across the coffee table, but then Mycroft sighs, and shakes his head. He leans forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, studies his fingernails_ _for a moment, then looks up again at Sherlock. When he speaks, it is in a quiet voice, and the bite that was in it until now is entirely gone._

MYCROFT: That white whale that you've been hunting, Sherlock - it doesn't exist. Joseph Bell's death was an accident. It wasn't planned. _(With emphasis)_ Bell died entirely without my knowledge, without my approval, and certainly not on my orders.

 _Sherlock's only response is a snort of contempt._

MYCROFT: And unless you're at least willing to entertain that possibility, I see no point in continuing this conversation.

 _No answer. Sherlock merely picks up his tea mug and leans back in his chair with it, watching his brother while he drinks._

MYCROFT _(urgently):_ You _must_ see it. If you still say you don't, I know it's because you simply don't want to.

 _A muscle twitches in Sherlock's face, but he still says nothing._

MYCROFT _(with a clear note of impatience in his voice now):_ If all you're interested in is venting your own guilt and grief on me, then I am indeed wasting my breath, and my time. _(In a different tone, quietly again)_ But if you're willing to hear me out, then I'm ready to tell you the truth.

SHERLOCK _(derisively):_ The truth according to Mycroft Holmes? What's that worth?

MYCROFT _(firmly):_ The truth, I said. _(He digs into the inner pocket of his jacket, takes out his phone, ostentatiously puts it on silence and places it on the coffee table. Then he leans back and joins his hands together in front of him.)_ It wasn't planned, but yes, I admit that I did my best to pick up the pieces once it had happened. _(A pause.)_ I shouldn't have lied to you, I know that now. I shouldn't have tried to keep this from you. I should have known that any attempt to disguise what really happened would only spur you on all the more. But the problem had to be resolved very quickly. You were not the only one affected by this, after all. There were other considerations to be taken into account, too.

SHERLOCK: Such as the small matter of successfully discrediting the cause of Scottish independence?

 _MacDee sits up with a jolt._

MACDEE: Of _what?_

MYCROFT _(with a humourless smile):_ Don't be so shocked, Detective Inspector. The concept should be familiar enough to you.

MACDEE _(a little stupidly, as if he has just heard it for the first time):_ Scottish independence?

MYCROFT: Just so. _(To Sherlock)_ It was a foolish endeavour, I grant you that. It was poorly planned, it was badly executed, and it predictably ended in disaster.

JOHN _(in a tone of disbelief):_ But you still let it happen?

MYCROFT: No, John, that's what I'm trying to tell you. I wasn't privy to the scheme, to start with. The first time I heard of it was when it had already gone wrong. You must know that I often have no direct prior knowledge of many operations that take place on a purely local or regional level. These are planned and carried out by regional departments, who take their own decisions on how to employ their budget, and who also do their own recruiting. _(He clears his throat, and glances quickly across at MacDee.)_ The ends, yes, of course I personally approve those, or not. The means, not necessarily.

SHERLOCK _(snidely):_ Because you couldn't sleep at night, could you, if you couldn't wash your hands of those all the time? Well, fair enough, everyone gets to do their own murders then, and no one need be jealous.

 _Mycroft gives his brother a disapproving look, but doesn't deign to reply._

MYCROFT _(to John):_ So the first I heard of this was that an operation of ours in Aberdeenshire had miscarried badly, and that we were left with a corpse to account for _. (To Sherlock)_ Believe me, I wasn't amused when I heard that. But when they told me the name of the victim, I was _livid_.

SHERLOCK: You were scared.

MYCROFT: No, I was angry. And not just for your sake _. (In a tone of genuine indignation)_ What makes you think that I should be indifferent to the senseless violent death of one of the brightest minds of our country? Of a man who -

SHERLOCK _(snappishly):_ Stop quoting the Times obituary, Mycroft. Nobody's buying it.

 _Mycroft rolls his eyes, then he clears his throat again._

MYCROFT: Well, I _was_ angry. But then, yes, I did my best to stop the matter getting out of hand completely. _(More quietly again)_ It's what I do, Sherlock, you know that. Whenever this chaotic world stumbles into yet another disaster, I go and clean it up. Very often, more often than even you are aware of, I manage. _(He shrugs.)_ Sometimes, I don't.

SHERLOCK _(bitterly):_ That's the only thing you regret about this, isn't it? That you didn't manage to take me in?

MYCROFT _(rather sharply):_ If that's what you want to believe, I won't waste time on trying to convince you otherwise. The realisation that the universe does not revolve solely around themselves dawns on most ordinary human beings at some point between their fifth and seventh birthdays, I believe, but I know you've always prided yourself on being extraordinary.

 _There is an awkward pause. The muscles in Sherlock's face are working again, but then he decides against whatever retort he has been contemplating. John, who has been watching him anxiously, relaxes. After a moment, Mycroft takes up his account again._

MYCROFT: Well. We were racking our brains on what to do about Bell's death, when a most convenient solution presented itself, entirely without our doing _. (He inclines his head towards MacDee.)_ That same night, the Grampian Police alerted all the National Park rangers, the mountain rescue teams and the security staff of the Balmoral estate that a dangerous convict had escaped from Ben Avon Psychiatric Hospital, and that there was a major search operation planned for the next day, in which they were all requested to join.

JOHN: The perfect scapegoat.

MYCROFT: Yes.

MACDEE _(indignantly):_ So when he was found, it was _your_ people who put it into Neligan's head to confess to a murder he'd never committed?

MYCROFT: It was a heaven-sent opportunity, Detective Inspector. We weren't going to waste it.

 _MacDee shakes his head, torn between righteous anger and guilt at his own gullibility. Mycroft gives him a fleeting, rather indulgent smile, then turns back to Sherlock._

MYCROFT: Why so quiet, brother dear? I'm waiting for you to accuse us of actually letting Neligan out in the first place, for the sole purpose of recapturing and blaming him later.

SHERLOCK: I wouldn't put it past you.

MACDEE _(under his breath):_ Jesus.

 _Sherlock pulls a face, then nods towards MacDee._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ And now MacDee is dying to hear what exactly Bell's death, and those dioxin barrels, had to do with the cause of Scottish independence.

 _Mycroft shoots his brother an irritated look. Then he, too, glances at MacDee, who is looking back at him with his brows drawn together, not pleased with what he has heard so far, and certainly not satisfied yet either. Mycroft hesitates, but then acknowledges he cannot stop there. When he speaks, it is rather quickly, as if to get it over with, and in a flat tone that contrasts strangely with the enormity of what he is imparting._

MYCROFT: Those dioxin barrels in the National Park were part of a _\- (He breaks off, and clears his throat again.)_ They were a project aimed at bringing discredit on Coinneach MacMillan, as the foremost SNP leader in Aberdeenshire, and one of the most prominent figureheads of Scottish independence. The ultimate end was, of course, to influence the upcoming referendum on independence in favour of maintaining the Union.

 _A heavy silence follows his words. MacDee sits stunned into speechlessness for a moment. Then his face flushes dark red, right up to the roots of his hair, and he opens his mouth to protest. Mycroft holds up his hand._

MYCROFT _(with a touch of acerbity):_ And I assure you, Detective Inspector, that I wouldn't be saying this here and now, if I weren't relying on everyone present to employ their common sense, and exercise at least a minimum of self-restraint. _(Seeing MacDee only partially placated, he continues even more sharply.)_ If my brother can do it, then so can you.

 _John puts a calming hand on MacDee's arm, and after a moment, MacDee deflates and sinks back into his seat. But a heavy frown still furrows his brow._

MYCROFT: Those barrels were placed in five different locations in the southern Cairngorms, all on watercourses, to maximise the theoretical effect of their becoming leaky and dispersing their contents into the environment.

MACDEE _(grimly):_ Theoretical? I thought those barrels were all full of actual dioxin?

MYCROFT _(matter-of-factly):_ Of course they are. If they had been analysed after their discovery, and found to be harmless, the true intention behind their placement would have been immediately obvious.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ And of course you had someone checking them regularly for leaks?

MYCROFT: You'll laugh, John, but yes, we had. They were all sealed in the most technically elaborate manner known to waste disposal experts, and they were checked at regular intervals to avoid any actual pollution. _(In a disapproving tone)_ What were you thinking? Of course they would have been either discovered or quietly removed before they could do any harm.

JOHN: Touching.

MACDEE _(to Mycroft, flushing with anger again):_ You dump a dozen barrels of pure poison in a National Park, and then you tell us you never meant to hurt anyone?

MYCROFT: Those who initiated the scheme certainly did not expect Joseph Bell to open them himself. They may have taken a few liberties with the labels on them, but the skull and crossbones, indicating poison, were clearly to be seen on all of them. I could have told them, of course, that Bell _would_ open them, in his native spirit of enquiry, with no thought for his own health. But they knew only his scientific laurels and his activities for the Park, and nothing of him as a person, so they didn't foresee it.

JOHN _(angrily):_ How stupid is that anyway, engineering a fake toxic waste scandal right under the nose of the country's leading toxicologist?

 _Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a look._

SHERLOCK _(bitterly):_ Not stupid at all, John. Very deliberate. Bell was _supposed_ to discover it, and Gilroy was supposed to blow the whistle. Think about it. We're talking about a university professor with an unblemished scientific record and the reputation of a dedicated volunteer conservationist; and about a local journalist who's known as a fearless avenger of anything that threatens the beauty and integrity of the National Park. They would have been the ideal key witnesses in this whole charade - entirely above suspicion themselves, and both of them patriotic enough not to let the fact that the supposed culprit was himself a prominent Scotsman stand in the way of their genuine righteous indignation. So that was the role assigned to them, and they played it beautifully, until Bell realised that the supposed key piece of all that fabricated evidence actually gave the whole game away. _(A pause. To Mycroft)_ Except that they really can't have known Bell, if they thought that he wouldn't see how carefully they had prepared that torn label on the barrel by the Allt an t-Slugain, and what that meant. He must have seen through it within seconds.

MYCROFT _(drily):_ And that should take care of any lingering suspicions that you might still entertain concerning _my_ involvement in the original plot. I could have told them he'd see through that immediately, too.

SHERLOCK: I hope you're aware that the list of things you might and could have done to stop this happening is growing uncomfortably long, Mycroft.

MYCROFT _(testily):_ And I assure you that that is the reason why I'm telling you all these things right now at all, when I really wouldn't have to.

MACDEE _(after a moment, to Mycroft):_ Can we be sure that those five locations that Joseph Bell found are all there are? What about the burns on the other side of the watershed, in the northern Cairngorms?

SHERLOCK: Don't worry about those. They would all have been outside Bell's walking range, so he wouldn't have been able to discover anything there. And besides, the logistics would have become too complicated if they'd expanded their business beyond the Dee Valley.

MACDEE: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: Just that an operation as large as this had to have a safe base somewhere nearby, of course.

 _MacDee still looks puzzled, but John's eyes grow wide. Sherlock, seeing it, grins wryly._

JOHN: You don't mean -

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course. Balmoral Castle. _(Cynically)_ The stronghold of the royalist cause in a desert of nationalist disaffection. _(To Mycroft, in a mock-pleasant tone)_ How delighted will _she_ be if she ever finds out that her beloved summer residence has been doubling as a hideout for a bunch of poisoners and murderers?

 _Mycroft's screws up his face in a pained expression, but he has himself in hand again very quickly._

MYCROFT: I can assure you that this was another part of the project that would never have got my approval, if it had been run by me beforehand.

SHERLOCK _(acidly):_ That'll be a comfort to her, I'm sure.

MACDEE _(to Mycroft):_ So your people were sitting in _Balmoral Castle_ , of all places, kicking their heels and waiting for Joseph Bell to walk into that trap? And he did, got all that horrible stuff right in his face, and had to cope with that all by himself, alone in his hut, for a whole week?

SHERLOCK _(matter-of-factly):_ Yes. But then, as soon as he could, he set out to discover whether there were more of those birds' nests out there. The fact that he located them all within a very few days indicates that he must have systematically checked all the watercourses in the area. Which means that he smelled a rat even then, because if you really wanted your fly-tipping to go unnoticed, why dump your toxic waste exactly where it would do most damage, and thus be discovered the soonest? But all the same, when he had found three or four of those nests, and recorded their location, carefully coded, in his birdwatcher's notebook, he must have told Alan Gilroy on the phone that there was something going on in the Park that disquieted him, and that he wanted to show his friend. He can't have said exactly what it was that he had discovered, but he must have dropped a hint to make Gilroy aware that it was something serious, and potentially dangerous. They arranged to meet on the Friday when he died. But then he discovered the fifth location, the one with the torn label on the barrel that pointed so over-clearly at Coinneach MacMillan that Bell realised it couldn't be true.

JOHN: And instead of enlisting Gilroy's help to work out what that meant, he cancelled their appointment altogether.

 _Mycroft nods._

MACDEE: But why? Because he didn't trust Gilroy after all?

SHERLOCK: No, because he wanted to protect him. He'd realised that he was onto something too big for him and Gilroy to handle alone, and he'd begun to change his strategy accordingly.

MACDEE _(to Mycroft):_ But how did your people know that?

SHERLOCK: Their phones had been tapped, of course.

MYCROFT: Gilroy's, yes. And not for the first time, either. _(Rather scornfully)_ He's always been a bit of a firebrand - even worse back in the eighties and nineties, when he was younger. So he'd had occasion, in the past, to learn to be careful about what to say on the phone. When Bell called him for the first time about the dioxin, _he'd_ have burst out with it straight away, but it was actually Gilroy who stopped him, told him not to say too much, and suggested they meet up in person instead.

MACDEE _(ruefully):_ And now I know why he seemed beside himself with guilt when he found Bell dead, and the secret with him. _(He snorts. To Mycroft)_ He couldn't have played into your hands more nicely, could he?

SHERLOCK _(coolly):_ And got rewarded for it accordingly.

MACDEE: What? You mean Gilroy was in on the plot after all?

SHERLOCK: No. He was one of the two men who would have had both the means and the guts to uncover it, even after Bell was dead. But both of them were very effectively persuaded to let sleeping dogs lie _. (To Mycroft)_ A long journey to South America, all expenses covered, and getting good pay as well as a nice bit of recognition from a national newspaper, for a whole series of articles on his favourite subjects - you knew that Gilroy would jump at that offer, didn't you? It made it so much easier for him to make his peace with the idea that Bell's death was just a pointless tragedy after all, and that his friend had been seeing things when he'd said he sensed danger. And so he went off docilely to Brazil, glad to forget, happy with his new project, not likely to stir up trouble over Bell's death again.

 _John and MacDee exchange a slightly sheepish look. Sherlock draws himself up in his seat, facing his brother with a look of utter disdain on his face._

SHERLOCK: That's how you corrupt the incorruptible, isn't it, Mycroft? You make them a present just a little above their true merits, carefully dosed to be flattering, but not glaringly so, not to raise suspicion. And there you have them, eating out of your hand in blissful ignorance, content to accept as a stroke of good fortune what they'd have scorned if they'd been offered it openly as the bribe that it is. It's a lot more elegant than corruption in its usual form, but the effect is of course the same.

MACDEE _(to Sherlock, with a frown):_ Two men were silenced that way, you said. If Gilroy was one, then who was the other?

SHERLOCK: You, of course.

 _There is a pause. Then, for the third time that night, MacDee's face flushes in an alarming tone of dark red._

MACDEE _(to Mycroft, spluttering with indignation):_ You - _you_ had me made Inspector? For _not_ solving Joseph Bell's murder?

MYCROFT _(urbanely):_ Well, according to your professional record, it wasn't so very far-fetched. A little early, perhaps, but you were on your best way there anyway. All I did was to accelerate the process.

MACDEE _(jumping up from his seat, beside himself with anger): You_ had me promoted, just so I'd let things lie, even if I got second thoughts? _(Getting louder and louder)_ Happy with my new rank and my higher pay, not wanting to look like a troublemaker, not keen on advertising that I made a mistake when I bought Neligan's fake confession?

MYCROFT _(with a hint of impatience):_ Well, you did buy it in the first place, without any active encouragement from me.

 _MacDee's mouth opens and closes, lost for words. John, who has been watching him with concern, now makes a move as if to intervene, but Sherlock is quicker._

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Sit down, MacDee. He's taken in cleverer men than you. There's no disgrace in it. _(With a rather forced smile.)_ Not much, at any rate. And it's still better than being on his official payroll.

 _MacDee slowly sinks back onto the sofa, his head between his hands. John grimaces with sympathy. After a moment, MacDee looks up at Sherlock again. The colour has drained from his face, and he suddenly looks grey beneath his usual ruddy complexion._

MACDEE _(to Sherlock):_ But _you_ thought that, didn't you? That I was working for them? That I wasn't on your side? That I was - bloody hell - _(shaking his head in desperate denial)_ – shielding a _murderer_? _(Close to tears, far more aggrieved than angry now)_ How, how in God's name could you _possibly_ believe that of me? _(He puts his hands over his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking badly.)_ But why else didn't you tell me that you were going up to the hut? Why else did you make me believe you'd gone to Ben Avon instead?

 _Sherlock seems quite alarmed for a moment at finding himself the target of such an outburst of emotion. But he recovers his composure just in time to shoot Mycroft, whose lips have parted as if to say something, a very quick and very sharp look of warning._ _Mycroft hesitates, then leans back with a shrug, as if to say "please yourself". By the time MacDee takes his hands away from his face and meets Sherlock's eyes again, Sherlock's expression has changed to one of indulgent condescension._

SHERLOCK: Oh, don't be ridiculous, MacDee. Of course I didn't believe that. Nobody in his right mind could ever think such a thing of you.

 _John and Mycroft exchange a look, John astonished, Mycroft curling his lip. But neither of them has the heart to shatter the look of joyous relief that has flooded MacDee's face at Sherlock's words._

SHERLOCK: But you must admit that you did your best to make it appear as if there _was_ foul play on your part involved. You jumped at it so readily when a convenient solution to the case presented itself, although a moment's quiet consideration should have told you that it couldn't be the true one. That could easily have been taken for deliberate rather than unintentional blindness. Then, your strange reluctance to tell even your best friend of your promotion straight away - an outsider might very well have attributed that to a guilty conscience, rather than to your inborn, near-pathological degree of modesty. Add to that your self-confessed nervousness throughout the investigation – and for someone who didn't know you, it wouldn't have been that far-fetched to assume that you were involved in this matter in a less than innocent capacity. But never fear. To me, all of this was always sufficiently explained by your relative inexperience and the natural limits of your intelligence, rather than any kind of malignity.

 _Now Mycroft looks very much as if he has to bite back a bark of laughter, while John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock in exasperation. But MacDee lets the smooth flow of Sherlock's words wash over him like a soothing lullaby, perfectly willing to let Sherlock insult his mental abilities to his heart's content as long as he acknowledges his integrity. And Sherlock himself is on a roll now, quite confident that he is hitting the right note._

SHERLOCK _(with a wry smile):_ And what would Lestrade have said if I'd left you in the mire like that? With a half-solved case that could still have blown up in your face any moment, as soon as someone, somewhere, started to wonder how it was possible for a single man with no experience in that field to transfix another with a historic harpoon? What if Gilroy, coming back from Brazil, hadn't been ready to let the matter go just yet, and had begun to pester you about reopening the case? What if Neligan had spilled the beans after all on those nice men from Balmoral who had promised him more hours of TV and free cigarettes? _(He jerks his head at Mycroft.)_ What if _he'd_ turned up on your doorstep before I did, and you'd have had to make your stand against the full force of the unity and the security of the United Kingdom on your own? _(He snorts.)_ Lestrade would have had my head on a pike.

MACDEE _(to John, attempting a grin):_ I said I'd be grateful, didn't I?

 _Mycroft smiles sardonically. John only shakes his head. There is a pause. Then Sherlock abruptly turns back to Mycroft._

SHERLOCK: Good. And now that MacDee's up to date, it's my turn again.

MYCROFT _(frowning):_ What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: I want to know what happened that night, Mycroft.

 _John grimaces, clearly doubting the wisdom of this request. Mycroft, who seems to share that opinion, regards his brother with his brows drawn together._

MYCROFT: Sherlock - I told John the truth when I said to him last week that I didn't want you to get side-tracked into fruitless distractions these days. _(Quietly, but very intently)_ You'll be no use at all if you keep living in the past, and brooding over what can't be changed any more.

 _A look that is heavy with a secret significance passes between the two brothers, but then Sherlock's lips curl in a sneer._

SHERLOCK: Yes, Mycroft, fine. All yours again tomorrow. But tonight, I want to know.

MYCROFT: I mean it, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: So do I.

 _A pause, and then again, it is Mycroft who backs down first._

MYCROFT _(with a sigh):_ On your head be it.

 _John looks unhappy. Sherlock looks content._

MYCROFT: That night, three men - one in charge of the operation, the other two assisting - were deployed to walk up to Professor Bell's hut for an interview with him.

MACDEE _(sceptically):_ An "interview"?

MYCROFT: Yes. No more than that. They were to find out what he had discovered, or what he thought he had discovered. After he had cancelled his appointment with Gilroy, they suspected that Bell was aware of, or at least guessing at, the true intention behind the supposed fly-tipping. They were to dissuade him from taking any action on it, especially from taking Gilroy into his confidence, and also from informing Coinneach MacMillan of the matter.

JOHN: "Dissuade him"?

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ They were to bribe him, and if that didn't get them anywhere, they were to bully him.

MYCROFT: If you insist, yes. But there was never any intent to let it come to a physical confrontation. The three men went unarmed.

SHERLOCK: And of course they didn't get anywhere.

MYCROFT: No, they didn't. As you or I could have predicted, Bell wasn't very cooperative. He scorned them when they tried to reason with him. He spat on the floor at their feet when they suggested both material and immaterial gratifications in return for his silence. And when they resorted to threats, he rose on them like a God of Wrath, calling them cowards and sneaks, and daring them outright to try and stop him. You know what he was like when he flew into a rage, and with both his beloved National Park and Scottish independence at stake, the word "rage" is probably a gross understatement to describe his reaction. Imagine Joseph Bell in the full swing of his native choler, towering over them with his black beard bristling, and that mighty voice of his raised to carry down the whole valley - it must have been a sight to impress even our most hardened operatives, and these three were, to say the least, not our best. The leader was rather inexperienced, certainly not ready yet for a delicate mission like this one. The other two had originally been recruited to take care of the technical side of the project, and were unused to dealing with external contacts. At any rate, they had reached an impasse - but then Professor Bell made the first of two costly mistakes.

 _Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly._

MYCROFT: He tried to turn the tables on them. _(He hesitates, as if unsure how to continue, and clears his throat.)_ He held up his phone, and he told them that he had prepared a message to a man he trusted, complete with pictures and all the information that was needed to get to the bottom of the mystery, and to bring those responsible to justice.

 _There is a twitch at one corner of Sherlock's mouth at this, no more, but it is enough to make Mycroft pause again._

SHERLOCK: "A man he trusted".

MYCROFT _(in a carefully neutral tone):_ Those were his words, I've been told.

 _Silence. Then, rather abruptly, Sherlock gets up from his seat. He winces when his bandaged feet take his weight, but he doesn't let it stop him from walking over to the window, away from the others. He stands there looking out into the dark night, with his back to the room, utterly still. Mycroft, who has followed him with his eyes, turns back to the other two men, and now addresses them rather than his brother._

MYCROFT: A man, Bell said, who would see justice done, and who would not be afraid to make himself heard, even if - or especially if - anything happened to Bell himself. All it would take him was a single click, Bell said, and that message would be on its way to his confidant. And unless they left his hut there and then, and made off with all that poison, never to set foot on Scottish soil again, he would send it off.

JOHN _(quietly):_ And they lost their heads.

MYCROFT: Exactly. They panicked, all three of them. All they saw was that precious secret, that they'd worked for months to protect and take effect, inches away from being ruined in an uproar of public indignation. They were scared out of their wits, and all they could think of was to get hold of that phone to stop Bell from passing the secret on to Gilroy, whom they, of course, thought to be the intended recipient of the message. They rushed at him to grab the phone, but he put up a good fight and held on to it for dear life, and when they couldn't overwhelm him, one of them, as a last resort, took one of the harpoons from the wall to force Bell into submission, and -

 _He breaks off, pressing his lips tightly together. There is a long silence. Then Sherlock, at the window, crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself as if to keep warm. John and MacDee both watch_ _him with concern, while Mycroft, immobile in his chair with his back to his brother, seems to be looking inward. Then, without turning around, Sherlock speaks up in a hollow voice._

SHERLOCK: What was the other mistake?

 _Mycroft raises his head._

MYCROFT _(almost gently):_ I think you know that already, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: Tell me.

 _Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, clearly unhappy to turn the knife in the wound._

MYCROFT _(quietly):_ That it wasn't true. _(Speaking to John and MacDee rather than to Sherlock again)_ That message that he'd threatened to send off - it didn't exist. They took his phone away with them, of course, when he was dead. But they found nothing like that on it, nothing at all.

JOHN: It was a bluff.

MYCROFT _(ruefully):_ It was wishful thinking.

MACDEE: But why? I mean, why did he hesitate in the first place? If he'd already guessed how deeply this went, and if there was someone he thought could help him, why didn't he...

 _Seeing Mycroft and John exchange a look, he trails off._

MYCROFT _(resigned):_ Yes, why? _(To John)_ Your guess is as good as mine. Quite literally, I assume _. (John nods unhappily.)_ But we'll never know for sure.

 _Behind them, over by the window, Sherlock makes a sudden little noise, like a snort. Quiet though it is, it arrests everyone's attention. Only a moment later, his shoulders start twitching. MacDee, unable to believe what he is seeing, raises his eyebrows at John in alarm. But before John can confirm the unthinkable, or do anything about it, Mycroft gets up from his seat and takes a few tentative steps towards his brother. John, confined to his place on the sofa by his bad leg, tenses. By the deep lines furrowing his brow, he clearly has very little confidence in Mycroft's ability to adequately handle a little brother in emotional distress. But then Mycroft changes his mind, halts, and simply waits until Sherlock_ _stills again, and is ready to turn_ _back towards the other three. When he does, his face is utterly blank, but his eyes are strangely glassy. He speaks up in a husky voice, as if something is constricting his throat._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ And the tea?

 _John and MacDee exchange a puzzled look. MacDee even frowns at the almost untouched mug with Sherlock's tea - long cold - on the table. Mycroft, however, does not seem surprised at all._

MYCROFT: That is a question that I'm afraid I have no answer to. It wasn't just an attempt to cover his tracks, that much I can tell you. Because it was only when he jumped up in agitation to throw them out of his hut that he knocked it all over his notebook. When it was perfectly clear already that he knew everything about the whole affair. But whether that was a mere accident, or whether he sensed what might happen and left you a message there at least, in the hope that you would come to clear the matter up even so, I simply don't know. _(A pause. With genuine regret)_ I knew it would matter to you, but I truly couldn't find out.

 _Sherlock's eyes are still fixed on his brother's face with that strange, dead stare, and he acknowledges Mycroft's explanation with neither word nor gesture. It is difficult to tell whether he has even heard it. Mycroft regards him quietly for a moment. Then he draws himself up to his full height, lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, as if to steel himself for an extremely unpleasant but inevitable task. He takes a deep breath, and does one of the bravest things he has ever done in his life._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ I'm sorry.

 _No reaction. Then, after another seemingly endless silence, Sherlock's eyes come alive again, searching his brother's face. A light questioning frown appears on his brow, as if he is having trouble working out whether he has just witnessed something real, or whether he has been hallucinating. But then he blinks, and the moment is irretrievably over. The shutters go down again, and all that comes out when he opens his mouth to speak is -_

SHERLOCK: Are you.

 _The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitch in what is almost a wince of pain. But then he lets out the breath he has been holding, resigned but unsurprised, and turns away from his brother to walk back towards the table.  
_  
MYCROFT: Well. _(He picks up his phone and pockets it again. To the room at large)_ I should be on my way now.

MACDEE _(quickly):_ No, wait - what do we do now? I mean, the dioxin's still out there -

MYCROFT _(already back in his accustomed smooth and superior tone):_ You can trust me to take care of that, Detective Inspector. There will be no need to exert yourself on that account. _(MacDee opens his mouth as if to disagree, but Mycroft cuts him off rather impatiently.)_ Surely it is perfectly obvious to you that nothing of what has been said in this room tonight can possibly pass beyond its walls?

 _MacDee looks very unhappy at this, but seems in the process of resigning himself to that necessity, when Sherlock, still at the window, speaks up behind Mycroft's back._

SHERLOCK: There are conditions, of course.

MYCROFT _(turning on his heel):_ Sherlock -

SHERLOCK _(unfazed):_ Firstly, you will apologise.

 _Mycroft frowns._

JOHN _(quietly):_ He just did that, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: To me, yes. What good does that do? _(To Mycroft)_ You will apologise to _her_.

 _Mycroft's jaw drops._

MYCROFT: I - I beg your pardon?

SHERLOCK: You heard me. _(In a mock-generous tone)_ Well, your choice, really. If you'd rather that someone else told her first…

 _All the colour drains from Mycroft's face._

MYCROFT _(appalled):_ You can't -

 _He swallows. Sherlock smiles maliciously._

SHERLOCK: Oh, can't I? I thought she had a right to know just how far her most faithful servants are ready to go in order to preserve her realm intact and united.

MYCROFT _(shaking his head in protest, almost pleadingly):_ Sherlock, that's -

SHERLOCK _(talking right over him):_ \- settled, yes? Good. You will apologise to her, and should she require it, you will agree to be personally answerable for it if anything of that sort ever happens again _. (Pressing home his advantage)_ Secondly, John Neligan. I don't care how you do it, but this imputation will disappear from his file. It will be purged from his record, and his name will never again be mentioned anywhere official in conjunction with Joseph Bell's death.

MYCROFT _(recovering from his shock, in an irritated tone):_ Oh, please. What difference does that make, with him condemned to a life behind bars anyway?

 _He turns to MacDee as if for the policeman's support, but MacDee crosses his arms over his chest, clearly refusing it_ _ **.**_

MACDEE _(firmly):_ They say that even a murderer deserves to hang only once.

 _Mycroft looks disappointed for a moment, but then shrugs._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, pointedly):_ Fine.

SHERLOCK: And thirdly, in exactly four weeks from today, MacDee here will put on his hiking boots, take that map – _(He nods at the drying rack.)_ – and make sure personally that there is not a grain of that poison left, in any of the five locations.

MYCROFT: Oh, four weeks! What's this, a sudden fit of generosity, or should I feel insulted?

SHERLOCK _(unimpressed):_ Four weeks, because I want Alan Gilroy to be there, too.

MYCROFT _(losing his temper for a moment):_ And why don't we ask John here to put it all in his blog, too?

 _John winces. Mycroft takes a deep breath to calm himself down._

MYCROFT _(in a quieter tone again, to Sherlock):_ Seriously - do you think it's a good idea to let someone like Gilroy -

SHERLOCK _(coldly):_ No, of course it isn't. That's my point.

 _Mycroft exhales sharply._

MYCROFT: I see. _(To MacDee, with dignity)_ Then may I ask you, at least, to impress on Gilroy the wisdom of keeping all of this to himself, too? _(With an ominous undertone)_ He may view it as insurance, but I'd strongly advise him not to take advantage of it. _(MacDee grimaces.)_ I fully rely on your tact and discretion in this matter, Detective Inspector.

MACDEE _(unhappily):_ You can. But I can tell _you_ , that title leaves a sour taste in my mouth now. If I'd known the price, I'd rather have stayed sergeant for the rest of my life.

MYCROFT _(urbanely):_ I assure you that if I saw a way of revoking your promotion now without doing permanent damage to your future career, I'd comply with your wish. But as it is, I can only advise you to accept it, and to grow into it eventually. _(With a sudden_ _smile)_ I have every confidence that you will.

SHERLOCK _(waspishly):_ Don't fall for it again, MacDee.

JOHN _(quietly):_ Sherlock.

 _MacDee glances across at Sherlock with a pained expression on his face, then turns and searches for John's eyes instead. John gives him an encouraging nod._

MACDEE _(to Mycroft):_ Alright.

MYCROFT: Very good. Well, then -

SHERLOCK: I wasn't finished.

MYCROFT _(rolling his eyes at the ceiling):_ Good God, what else?

SHERLOCK _(evenly):_ I want their names.

 _Mycroft's expression instantly hardens into stone._

MYCROFT _(with absolute finality):_ No.

 _A pause. Then -_

SHERLOCK: I knew our definitions of "the truth" would diverge at some point, Mycroft. _(Sarcastically)_ Shame. You were doing so well.

MYCROFT: I can tell you what became of them.

 _Sherlock makes a brief gesture with his hand, as if to say "go ahead"._

MYCROFT: One of them has been invited to sign on as technician on an oil rig out in the North Sea. And he'll find that there'll be no trouble at all in extending his contract once it runs out. _(With a disquieting smile)_ It's not easy to find people for those jobs, you know - the dirt, the cold, the loneliness…

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice):_ The second?

MYCROFT: Had the misfortune of not being a British national. His residence permit was found to be invalid, and he has been deported to his home country. There is a rather ugly civil war raging there at the moment, so it won't exactly feel like a holiday, in case that's what you were thinking.

SHERLOCK: And the third? The one in charge, I suppose?

MYCROFT: Will be filing for the rest of his life.

 _And he closes his mouth with a snap. There is another silence, while Mycroft watches something going on in Sherlock's face that only he can see. He shakes his head._

MYCROFT _(quietly):_ Don't try to find them, Sherlock. You know what will have to happen to them if you do. And how will _that_ help?

 _John and MacDee stare at Mycroft and then at each other, appalled._ _Sherlock, who is still standing with his arms crossed, takes a deep breath. His fingers tighten almost convulsively around his upper arms, digging into his flesh, the knuckles standing out white. John, seeing it, screws up his face, braced for an explosion. But it doesn't come._

SHERLOCK _(in a low voice, but with utter disgust):_ Get out, Mycroft. Get out of my sight.

 _Again, a muscle in Mycroft's face twitches, but then he shrugs, and without another word starts walking towards the door. Sherlock, stock-still, stares him out. But when Mycroft has reached the door and opened_ _it, Sherlock raises his voice to a shout after all, so sudden and so loud that it startles both his brother and his friends almost out of their skins._

SHERLOCK: And next time you take someone out of my life, Mycroft, restrict yourself to doing it only once! _(Even louder, a veritable roar of rage)_ If that isn't too much to ask for!

 _Mycroft, with his back to the room, hesitates for a moment. But then he braces himself, and walks out into the dark hall without a backward glance. The_ _three others can hear the front door close. A silence descends on the room. Then suddenly, little bare feet come pattering down the staircase, and the small figure of MacDee's son Ewan in his pyjamas appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily._

EWAN: Dad? Why are they shouting?

 _At first, nobody reacts. But then MacDee gets up, walks over to his son, and squats down in front of him._ _He puts his hands on Ewan's shoulders, and smiles a rueful little smile._

MACDEE: Sometimes you just have to, Ewan.

 _He ruffles his son's hair, puts his arm around the child and starts steering him back gently towards the stairs and his bed, leaving Sherlock and John alone together in the living room._

 _When father and son are gone, Sherlock lets out a long breath, and his arms sink down to his sides. In spite of the stuffy warmth in the room, a sudden shudder passes over him, making him tremble from head to foot. His fists open and close in an effort to regain control, but to no avail. John, seeing it, heaves himself out of his seat. He approaches his friend slowly but with dogged determination, step by step, bracing himself on the furniture. Sherlock tenses in response, as if poised for flight. But when they are just within reach of each other, John halts again. He balances himself on his good leg, takes off his woollen jumper, and wordlessly puts it into Sherlock's hands._


	13. Chapter 13

**_St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Molly Hooper's lab,_** _on an early evening later that week. Molly is walking quietly around the room, clearing away her instruments and her paperwork at the end of the working day. She has already hung her lab coat on a hook by the washbasin, and is in the process of packing her bag when once again, there is a knock on the door. This time, it is Sherlock who enters. Molly's face lights up immediately, but instead of striding inside and filling the room with his presence straight away, he stands aside and holds the door open for the person following him. Seen in profile, he looks unchanged in his coat and scarf, except for his hair, which seems ever so slightly shorter and therefore fractionally tidier than usual. Now John comes hobbling slowly into the room on a pair of crutches, his left leg still in a brace that stabilises his knee. Molly stares at him in astonishment. Then she hurries towards them._

MOLLY: John, oh my God!

JOHN _(with a brave smile):_ Yes, I'm afraid it's real this time. _(In a reassuring tone)_ Not as bad as it looks, though. Just a wrench.

MOLLY _(anxiously):_ What happened?

JOHN: I came down a hill limping.

 _Molly grabs her comfortable desk chair and pulls it over for him. John leans his crutches against the nearest workbench and sinks down in it gratefully. Sherlock, made almost redundant for the moment, remains standing by the door._

JOHN _(to Molly):_ And we'd have been back earlier, too, but we got into the rain, and it took Sherlock's coat four full days to dry.

SHERLOCK: Three and a half. And besides, it wasn't my coat that held us up. It was John, who couldn't tear himself away from Mrs Henderson's breakfast for days on end.

 _Molly frowns at the unfamiliar name._

JOHN _(swivelling his chair towards Sherlock, with a grin):_ Which _you_ never touched, of course? Admit it, Mrs Hudson's got a fierce competitor now for first place in the cooked breakfast league.

SHERLOCK: Only for people who can stand culinary aberrations like black pudding in the morning.

JOHN: Yeah, well, someone's been telling me to get in touch with my non-existent Gaelic roots.

 _Molly looks continuously more puzzled._

SHERLOCK _(to Molly, breezily_ ): But anyway, Molly, all we're here for today is that John wants to hear the result of last week's blood test. _(He blithely ignores the astonished - and rather guilty - look that John is giving him, and continues with a rather forced smile.)_ Shall I get us some coffee, while you talk it over?

 _And without waiting for a reply, he exits the room, coat tails swishing, and the door falls closed behind him with a thud. Molly and John are left staring at each other in great consternation. Then Molly speaks up first._

MOLLY: You did get my text, didn't you? About the test result?

JOHN _(bewildered):_ Yes, of course. _He_ wanted to come here today, not - _(He sighs.)_ Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.

MOLLY: You should be relieved, though.

JOHN: What, that the test was negative?

MOLLY _(with a small smile):_ That it wasn't necessary.

 _John takes a moment to allow himself to return her smile, but then he does. Molly walks across the room to fetch a stool for herself to sit on, but when she returns with it and settles down next to John, her face is already back to a rather worried expression. She nods her head at the closed door that Sherlock has just disappeared through._

MOLLY: What about him, though?

JOHN _(reluctantly):_ Well -

MOLLY _(quickly):_ It's just that I hate it when he's cheerful like that. Never a good sign.

JOHN: Mmh.

 _He seems somewhat at a loss how much to tell Molly._

MOLLY _(tentatively):_ So - you didn't solve it then, did you?

JOHN: Let's say I wish we hadn't.

MOLLY: Oh. _(Sincerely)_ I'm so sorry.

JOHN: Well - we didn't, technically. We still don't know who exactly killed Joseph Bell. But we know _what_ did.

MOLLY: You mean, other than - _(gesturing awkwardly at her chest)_ \- that harpoon thing?

JOHN: Yes. Going solo killed him. Trying to work things out all by himself. Not getting help when he needed it. Shutting everyone out, even his friends.

MOLLY _(with a deep sigh):_ Oh dear.

 _John doesn't reply._

MOLLY _(hesitantly):_ Don't you - don't you sometimes wish that life would find kinder ways of teaching its lessons? _(John frowns. Quickly)_ I mean - I think that quite a lot. Almost every time someone under sixty passes through here, actually. _(John grimaces. Molly blushes furiously.)_ Sorry, I didn't mean - All I meant is - _(She sighs again.)_ D'you think he got that message? Sherlock, I mean?

JOHN _(with a shrug):_ I really can't tell. Maybe yes, maybe no. _(With a lop-sided grin)_ We can always hope, can't we?

MOLLY: But - but is he going to be alright, d'you think?

JOHN: Yes. Eventually.

 _Molly nods. She looks down at her hands, which she has linked in her lap, and then raises her head again._

MOLLY: You know, I've been uneasy ever since I heard about Joseph Bell being killed, on the news. I knew it would make Sherlock feel that he had to make good for - for whatever exactly went wrong between them in the past. Even if all that was left to him now was to catch the murderer. But still, somehow I had the feeling, right from the start, that nothing good could come of it, even if he succeeded.

JOHN _(resigned):_ And you were more right than you know, Molly.

SHERLOCK'S VOICE _(from the direction of the door, in a mock-disapproving tone):_ Oh, I wouldn't say that, John.

 _John and Molly's heads jerk around. Sherlock, carrying three paper cups with lids between both hands, pushes the door fully open with his elbow, walks over to them, and sets the cups down carefully on the workbench. Molly and John exchange an extremely embarrassed look, but Sherlock pretends not to notice. He pushes one cup across to John, then another to Molly. She looks up at him, pleasantly surprised that he thought to get her one at all._

SHERLOCK _(to Molly):_ We saved a National Park, after all. That doesn't happen every day.

 _He raises his coffee cup to John in a mock toast. John seems undecided for a moment whether to play along or not, but then he returns the toast and drinks._

JOHN _(to Molly, nodding at Sherlock's head):_ And Sherlock got a free haircut, too.

MOLLY _(following John's eyes, quickly):_ Yes, I saw! _(To Sherlock)_ It's -

SHERLOCK _(into his cup, grumpily):_ \- too short.

MOLLY _(in a faltering voice):_ …very nice, I meant.

 _There is another rather awkward silence, but then John laughs._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ Well, next time, you can go back to a pair of blunt scissors and two mirrors in your own bathroom.

SHERLOCK _(with monumental dignity):_ Excuse me?

 _Molly tries but fails to stifle a giggle._

MOLLY _(to Sherlock):_ Who cuts your hair normally, then?

SHERLOCK: Angelo.

 _John raises his eyebrows._

JOHN: Man of many talents, is he?

SHERLOCK _(rolling his eyes):_ Different Angelo.

 _John chuckles, then takes another sip of his coffee. Molly, who has not touched her drink so far, follows his example – and puts her cup down again immediately, pulling a face._

MOLLY _(to Sherlock, in a tone of disbelief):_ Chamomile tea?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Yes. I figured that for someone with a naturally nervous disposition such as yours, caffeine after six p. m. really wasn't advisable.

MOLLY _(exasperated):_ Oh, thank you!

SHERLOCK _(deadpan):_ You're welcome.

 _Molly looks at him for a moment, waiting to find out whether he is pulling her leg or not, but without success. She gives up, and turns back to John._

MOLLY _(sympathetically):_ But all _you_ got out of the case was a wrenched knee? Nothing good at all?

JOHN: Oh yes, I did. _(With a glance at his friend)_ We had a little chat about, well, everything and nothing, really. But I got Sherlock's solemn promise that next time he feels the need to put psychoactive substances into my coffee, he's going to bloody _ask_.

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ When did I say _that_?

JOHN _(nonchalantly):_ Well, if you haven't yet, now would be a good time.

 _He takes another slow, deliberate sip from his cup, watching his friend over its rim. Sherlock regards John for a moment with his brows drawn together. Then he smirks._

SHERLOCK: It wasn't in the coffee, John.

 _John inhales sharply - and Sherlock makes a show of ducking a punch. But by the time he comes up again, John is already chuckling, Molly joins in a moment later, and finally even Sherlock's face starts lighting up in a genuine smile. And we fade to black._

* * *

THE END

Postscript:

On 18th September 2014, a national referendum on independence was held in Scotland. Only 44.7% of the participants voted in favour of independence; 55.3% voted for Scotland to remain a part of the United Kingdom. Mycroft must have heaved a sigh of relief.

* * *

 **Endnotes:**

Credit where credit is due.

I'm infinitely grateful, yet again, to my beta reader Cooklet, for making this story as good as it could possibly get. There are not many beta readers in the world, I believe, who will provide their writers not only with the highest standard of linguistic, narrative and medical advice, but also with shortbread recipes and drawings of stray farm animals in police stations by way of encouragement; and even fewer who will take a walk in the rain without a jacket on, just to accurately gauge the effect of mild hypothermia. Thank you, my dear!

Sincere thanks also to dioscureantwins for the fashion advice.

And I would also like to thank my husband, who unknowingly provided the inspiration for this story when his only comment on the outcome of the Scottish referendum on independence last year was "Well done, Mycroft".

I am not the first writer to picture Sherlock's journey home from the abattoir with the harpoon as having in fact been a trip in a police car, not a ride on the tube. Check out "The Tube is not an Acceptable Place for a Harpoon by Loopy456 on AO3 for a very funny variation on that theme.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of Black Peter" has been a major source of inspiration for this story. The scene with Igor's visit to 221B Baker Street in the first chapter, however, owes its existence to the beginning of "The Adventure of the Three Gables".

Joseph Bell of course takes his name from the real person that Sir Arthur originally modelled Sherlock Holmes on. The somewhat less-than-flattering portrayal of my version's personality, however, diverges significantly from everything we know of the real Doctor Joseph Bell – purely for narrative reasons. No disrespect of the historic personage and his legacy is intended.

Coinneach MacMillan and his waste disposal company are fictional. So is Ben Avon Psychiatric Hospital, but I have modelled its role in this story on the allegations of sub-standard performance that the real Royal Cornhill Hospital in Aberdeen has been faced with in recent years.

Joseph Bell's hut is fictional, too, of course, so don't get lost in the hills looking for it and come back complaining that you needed to be rescued. ;-) But all the other landscape features described in the story - all the glens, burns, beinns and creags - are certainly real, and if you haven't yet, go and visit one day. It's a breathtakingly beautiful part of the world.

And I'll be happy to make a substantial donation to the Cairngorms National Park if you can teach me the proper pronunciation of the name "Quoich". Because honestly, I have no idea, and I've been wondering for MONTHS now.

The Grampian Police (or the Aberdeenshire and Moray Division of Police Scotland, as they have been known since 2013) really don't have a helicopter. Neither do the mountain rescue teams in the Cairngorms. They both have to borrow one from somewhere else when needed.

 **Thank you to all readers and reviewers** who have stuck with me throughout the longest story I've written to date - I hope you've enjoyed the journey, and your feedback is hugely appreciated! :-)


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